There's A World Outside Your Window
by gypsy rosalie
Summary: Christmas is a time for family. But every family has its secrets, and not everything is running smoothly this year. (ATEOTD, J/M, A/I, N/D)
1. Joey I: The card

**It's a bit early, but this Christmas fic has a fair few chapters, so I've started posting it now. This originally started as a deleted scene of At the End of the Day (yes, another one, I'm sorry, but think of it as a sort of Christmas special of it. That fic and many aspects of it sort of exploded out of my head all at once and I started several related things at once.) which was eventually replaced by chapter 6 of that fic, and some of it has survived into this one and been reworked so it fits with the rest of the story a bit more. **

**This fic will feature the POVs of three different characters, which will start overlapping as the story goes on. Quite a lot of reflection to begin with, and a bit less plot, but I hope it'll suffice. **

**I shall be updating this every few days or so, so keep an eye out for updates. I shall also be alternating POV every chapter.**

**And, I promise, though there may be similarities in this prologue, it will NOT be a rehash of ATEOTD- Joey's plotline will eventually tie in with the others' ones.**

* * *

**December, 1996**

**Joey**

The card is only small, a simplistic, cartoonish snowman on the front smiling up from a pale blue background, a generic season's greeting scrawled across the front in swirly, sparkly font. For a moment or two Joey just stares at it, at once amused and appalled by the tackiness of it, and then, with a determined sigh and gritted teeth, he flips it open and presses his gold pen to the blank inside cover.

What do you write to someone you don't know anymore? What do you write to someone you love so dearly, and yet haven't seen in four years? A simple holiday message seems a bit unfeeling. A heartfelt declaration of his every emotion seems a bit too desperate, a bit too soppy, a bit too clingy.

He twiddles the pen around between his fingers before pressing down on the top. The nib pops out, but, contrary to his expectations, _There'll Always Be an England_ fails to play. Joey frowns and unscrews the end of the pen, holding it up to the lamp as he squints down the tube to inspect its insides.

Ah, just as he thought- Martina has removed the music box again. He wishes she'd stop doing that. He's only just bought this one- hasn't even had it a week and she's already mutilated it. He'll have to find a new hiding place for his singing writing implements. Joey shakes his head, tosses the pen aside in favour of one of Martina's ordinary biros and stares once more at the blank card.

He clicks the pen lid against his teeth, closes and reopens the card, angles it so it's perfectly in line with the edge of the desk and sighs again. No good putting this off forever. The longer he waits, the more addled his brain is going to be- it's already three in the morning, and without sleep he'll be less and less likely to think up an appropriate sentiment as the hours wear on. He's just going to have to wing it, and live with whatever he ends up writing.

_Merry Christmas, son_, he begins, pleased with his progress thus far. Nothing you can say about that, is there? _Hope you have a_ …he hesitates, _fantastic day and…_he hesitates again, _a very happy New Year_. There. Sounds ordinary enough, without being too detached. It's not the best thing he's ever written, but it gets the job done. Joey moves to close the card, but then his hand moves all by itself, picks up the biro again and adds a postscript.

_Thinking of you always. _

_-Joey_

He holds it up to examine it in the dim lamplight, smiles at his handiwork and brushes away a tear that's set up camp on his cheek. Joey presses his index finger against the snowman's nose, imagining for a minute that by doing so he can connect with the card's recipient. He tries to envision their reaction, tries to decide whether they'll smile upon opening it or be disappointed by the simplicity of what he's written, whether they'll think he didn't make enough of an effort. He tries not to entertain the very possible possibility that this card won't even reach its intended reader at all, might be lost somewhere in a solicitor's filing cabinet, might be thrown out by a spiteful hand. He tries not to feel his heart breaking all over again as these ideas prance through his head.

No use getting all wistful, now, is there? Joey is determined to be optimistic about this. He's doing the only thing he can, and that's got to count for something. Putting the card down for a moment, Joey pulls three twenty-pound notes from his wallet, slips them inside and carefully slides it into its envelope.

'What are you doin' up?'

Martina's voice startles him, and Joey hastily pushes the card under a book as he turns. She's standing in the study doorway, leaning against the frame, one hand on her hip and the other resting on her stomach.

Joey drags out the chirpiest tone of voice he can manage. 'I should be askin' _you_ that, shouldn't I, sweetheart? You need your rest.'

'So do you, at this time o' night.'

Martina glides into the room, a spectre in a white dressing gown, resting her arm on the back of his chair. 'What are you doin' so _secretly_ in 'ere?'

'Oh, nothing,' Joey's laugh is laced with guilt, 'it's…er… a _surprise.'_

He can't see her roll her eyes when she's standing behind him, but he knows she's doing it.

_'Mister Boswell_.' Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, fingernails clenching around it in warning before releasing him. 'You can't pull the wool over me eyes that easily. You can't pass off _everythin'_ devious you get up to as bein' somethin' to do with my Christmas present.'

Rats. That had been such a good excuse. He's carried out four tax dodges under her nose in the past three weeks, managing to get away without having her snoop by pretending he was going out to buy/bringing in/wrapping/hiding his gift for her- and thus far, it's worked. Of course, it was always a matter of time before she cottoned on, realised that he was using that as a cover under which to bring every other secretive thing he wanted to get done, but Joey's slightly disappointed she's stopped falling for it so soon. He was planning to set up another fake bank account for himself on Thursday. Ah well.

'And how do you know,' he says, rising and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist, 'which times were me being devious and which ones were _actually_ to do with your present? You shall never be able to tell.'

He gives her a kiss, to which she responds with a tut.

'And if you can't tell, you won't be able to tell whether _this_ time was _actually_ to do with your present either! So if you snoop now, you might ruin the surprise, mightn't you?' He nods, proud of himself for being able to foil her, to play his way out of a corner.

'All right, all right,' Martina says, shaking her head, 'don't try all that cunning negotiation rubbish at this hour. I'll believe yer this time.' She moves back a little to hold him at arms' length, and he can just make out her raised eyebrow. 'But this is the last time I'll let you off the 'ook. The next time you shut yourself away in 'ere, I'm comin' in to find out what you're up to, Christmas 'surprises' or no Christmas 'surprises.''

'What a suspicious lady you are,' Joey says, pulling her close again and moving his hand down to run over her stomach. He can feel Belle writhing through Martina's camisole, and he leaves his hand there for a while, letting the movements of his unborn daughter calm him and bring a natural smile to his face. There are only about two months to go before she comes out of there, before Joey can hold her and whisper promises and words of love into her tiny ear, before he can properly cradle his child in his arms, and Joey can't wait. He's already bursting at the seams with love for her, and he's lived in a state of anticipation for longer than he can bear- he just wants her to be born now, for their life as a little group of three to properly begin. And just thinking of that future- that future with Belle in it- can instantly brighten his mood.

'D'you ever wonder what she's thinkin'?' Joey says, absently drawing a love heart on Martina's stomach with his finger, then pressing his hand flat against it. He feels Martina's laugh vibrate into his palm, followed by a kick as the baby squirms again.

'She's thinkin' that it's late, and you should come to bed, that's what she's thinkin'.' Martina takes hold of his wrist, handcuffing him with her index finger and thumb. 'And so am I.'

Joey lets her pull him a few steps towards the door and then pauses.

'Thing is, sweetheart,' he says, freeing his wrist from her grip, 'you know that possibly devious, possibly surprisin' thing I was workin' on just now? Well, I wasn't _quite_ finished, and considerin' the fact that I only have tonight to make the most of you turnin' a blind eye…'

Martina gives him a long, steady look, and he senses she's already predicted the second half of this sentence.

'And if you could perhaps allow me, oh, say, five more minutes to get it all done and dusted…'

Martina's lips purse into a thin line, stay that way for a few seconds and then soften again.

'Oh, go on, then. _Five minutes_, mind. Any longer than that and I'll come back and _drag_ you out of 'ere.'

'Would it be wise to exert yourself in your condition, sweetheart?'

'I'm pregnant, Joey, not dyin'. And it'd be no _exertion_ to forcibly remove you from this room in order ter stop you gettin' up to yer schemes- I think you underestimate me strength, Mister Boswell.'

Joey chuckles at the retort. 'Stop _me_ from carryin' out _schemes_? Now that I'd like to see.'

Martina tuts again. _'Five minutes_.'

She disappears through the doorway, and Joey waits until her footsteps pad away down the passage before pulling out the envelope with the card in it again.

This shouldn't be a secret, really. Martina understands how he feels about all this, always has, but the more he thinks about it, the more inclined he is not to let her know about it. She knows how much he's looking forward to Belle being born, knows he loves their child with every inch of himself, even now when she's still thrashing around in the womb, knows she has nothing to worry about. But he can't help thinking she _would_ worry if she knew about this. She didn't even want to _have_ a child in the first place because of her untrusting nature, because of her suspicions that Belle was going to be a replacement for something he'd lost, and though she seems to have gotten over that, he doesn't dare do anything in front of her that might reopen that particular wound.

In Joey's mind, though, he has two children. Two. One with Roxy, one with Martina. Blood doesn't matter; he doesn't care if the first one wasn't related biologically, or even legally, he was- _is_- Joey's child, and just because he loves Annabelle doesn't mean he'll ever stop loving that other child. And why should he? Other people are perfectly capable of being parent to more than one child, aren't they? Doesn't mean they love any of their offspring any more or less than the others, does it? There's no reason why he shouldn't lay claim to a son _and_ a daughter, and love them both equally and openly.

But knowing Martina, knowing her insecurities, if he said this to her, she'd probably have a fit. For all she likes to be understanding when he tells her of his problems and how much he misses his son, she's a jealous, possessive woman. When Roxy came down to see him last year (her motives for doing so he's still not entirely sure of), Martina sent her off with a very stern reminder that Joey belonged to _her_ now, and not to bother him again. When Joey first started to discuss having children, she couldn't dislodge the idea that he was thinking of Roxy and her child, just wanted substitutes. And after all the times she's been let down over the years, he can't say he blames her for being this way. Joey is the first partner she's had, as far as he knows, who has actually been good to her, has actually tried to work at their relationship and give her what she needs, rather than just taking and then clearing off when he's drained her of all he could get. He's the first one she's really, truly loved without reserve, and though she's stopped being _quite_ so hasty to jump down his throat and assume he's going to hurt her, the thought of losing him, or of feeling he doesn't really want her around, frightens her to pieces.

And Joey doesn't want her to feel that way. Joey wants her to be secure in him, to feel she _can_ attach herself to him without fear of rejection, to feel she _can_ have children without fearing that he'll put them in second place to Roxy's child. He loves her. He wants to give her everything. He wants her to be happy.

But that doesn't mean he can just switch off his love for his son. Even after four years without so much as a word, Joey's affections for the kid are as strong as ever, the pangs he feels when he sees photos of the two of them or when something he sees reminds him of the lad are still as sharp. And he's never going to stop thinking about him, trying to contact him, trying to send him tokens to remind him that, though he might be in Liverpool and the boy somewhere in London, they're still father and son, and that will never change.

Joey takes up his pen again, presses it to the envelope and writes out the name in a slow, caring cursive.

_Oscar Hartwell._

Then he puts the envelope in his inside coat pocket, where Martina is less likely to snoop, turns off the lamp and goes to bed before Martina can make good on her promise to drag him there.

He can't sleep, though.

* * *

**Yes, I know it seems to be the same problem, but this will not be the mainstay of Joey's plotline, and we will be approaching it and his relationship with Martina from a different angle. They may get on each other's nerves a _tiny_ bit more this time round.**

**Also, I promise this will not turn into a Christmas cliché, with Martina suddenly going into labour on Christmas. I assure you, that will not be happening. Sorry to disappoint. **

**And the musical pens will make a reappearance. That I promise you. **

**Up next...well, it's probably not much of a surprise if you look at the cover, but I'll leave you to guess who's coming next all the same. **


	2. Nellie I: A good man

**Just to clarify, vis a vis timing, characterisation, etc, as this is set after the show I've tried to include some fix-its for series 7 and the finale, hence some of the characters' thoughts and actions. However the Joey I'm writing, personality-wise, aims to fit more with the first incarnation of Joey, or more specifically, the incarnation of Joey around the beginning of series 3, where (sadly) he was a little less playful and a little more serious while still retaining some of that charm and cheer. That incarnation is my preferred version to write, and that is the version I will usually base my Joey off, though if you would rather imagine him as the second version, by all means, go ahead. Same applies for Aveline, when she eventually turns up. **

* * *

**Nellie**

'You were a good man.'

The wind whistles and she tightens the knot on her headscarf. Nellie Boswell stares out across the cemetery, at the rows and rows of crumbling stones, each a cold, hard reminder of a life now lost. There's something grotesquely beautiful about a cemetery, she thinks (well, not a _Proddy_ one; their churches, their services, their cemeteries, their _everything_ are damp and dull). You stand there and look at the graves, and you can almost feel the energy of the lives all these people once lived, can almost feel the vibes of love being sent towards them from those who succeed them but keep their memories alive. You can almost feel their eyes on you, watching down from Heaven above.

She wonders if Derek is watching her right now- and if he is, what he's thinking. Would he still see her as beautiful, even now? She feels she's aged ten years since he's been gone. She's stopped dying her hair- she'd taken it up again for a while, but there seems to be no point now. (She'll never impress Freddie Boswell enough for him to permanently leave that TART.) She's collected more wrinkles around her mouth. Her eyes are nearly always turned down at the corners.

The little dog sits moping around her ankles, absently shuffling in to sniff at the gravestone and then shuffling back out, and Nellie bends down to tickle its ears. It's been in her possession since Derek died, since he asked her, his voice weak and scratchy, if she'd take care of it when he was gone, and she'd only managed to answer with a high-pitched _thank you_. Nobody has questioned the fact that she has it. Every one of her children knows about Derek, they have for years now, though they don't mention it all that often. And when Adrian had popped in for a visit and the dog had loped up to inspect him, when Joey had burst in full of excitement to tell her Martina was pregnant, and it had casually peed on his leather shoe, even when Billy had come thundering down the stairs, late for his first sandwich round, and it had looked up at him with big, dopey eyes from the sofa, none of them had made much in the way of a remark. They'd sort of all given her a knowing look- the same, twisted smile- leaned down to pet the dog and that had been that.

'You were a good man,' Nellie says again, nodding at the stone, even though she knows it's just a reminder of Derek, not Derek himself. 'You made me feel…happy, and young, and…_needed_. It's nice to feel that way. To feel…valuable. To feel special. You made me feel like I could take on the world- just me, all by myself. You came along and gave me something I never had before.'

She dabs at her eye with a handkerchief, in mourning, she realises, both for the man himself- so gentle and considerate and kind, such an agreeable companion- and for what he had given her, for that wonderful, golden sense of self-worth she fears will never come to her again.

Sometimes it seems like nobody needs her. She's full of love- she's loaded to her fingertips with it, and she doesn't get to give it. Freddie, her husband of Heaven knows how many years now, hadn't been satisfied with it, not when the flashing knickers and tremendous bosom of Lilo Lil had beckoned. Her children love her, she knows, but they all have, in their own way, untied themselves from her, gotten married, started lives of their own, and though they visit, it's not the same. It's not the same as being needed. (There's Billy, of course. There'll always be Billy. But he doesn't need her as much as he needs a permanent chair to sit on, a permanent pole to lean on, a permanent helping hand. He doesn't appreciate what she has to offer, he just takes it as his birthright.)

And Joey- _Joey!_ When he'd married Roxy he'd shattered her heart. Joey, her stronghold, the mainstay of her life, as she'd once called him, always there to rely on but also to rely on her, to make her feel she really mattered, had turned around and bitten her head off, had shouted at her for trying to stop him from having a life of his own, for turning to him instead of trying to solve problems herself. He'd had enough of the family unity he'd always seemed to cherish so dearly- it seemed to have lost its shine when Roxy came on the scene again, and he'd gone off with his new tart of a wife and left her to grieve.

Everything she'd thought she'd had had been completely obliterated, completely destroyed when Joey had done that.

But Derek had been there. And over the next few months, they'd grown even closer. He'd been the only one she had to lean on.

Joey came back, of course. Barely a week later (conveniently just after his first big marital row with Roxy) he'd turned up on her doorstep with flowers and apologised until he was blue in the face, taken back every harsh word he'd said on that fateful day, grovelled and whimpered that he hadn't meant any of it, that no matter who he was married to he couldn't escape the fact that the family was a part of him. _Promised_ he would never regret or resent them again. And she'd forgiven him, of course, because what else can a mother do? She loves Joey; he's her first-born son, the one born of love not duty, the one who had been there for her for so long when no-one else had. She'd started calling him again, when Freddie returned home from his mysterious journey and immediately went clomping off with Lilo Lil. And he'd been there for her once again, as he always was, even when it put strain on his marriage. He did everything he could to repair their relationship, even when it irreparably damaged his relationship with Roxy. He moved back in with her when the inevitable happened and they divorced. It had almost all returned to normal.

But she's never forgotten what he said that day. It will haunt her forever, the thought that Joey sees her love for him as obstructive, a roadblock in his path to independence, the thought that, perhaps, all her children do. She'd so wanted them to be a perfect family, and these days they almost seem that way again when they all come to visit, but it'll never feel quite the same, never feel quite right.

And after that day, after Joey ruined her ideas of unity quite possibly forever, the only person she could really feel valued around was Derek. Derek didn't resent her affection and attention- Derek sought it out. Derek gave her the thrill of the chase, let her be coquette-ish and coy and never judged her for her cares or burdens. She wishes she had met Derek when they were young, wonders what her life would have been like if she had. She could have had the world. She could have lived in wedded bliss for years, married to someone who treasured her, who would never have left her for a great, walloping Irish trollop. She could have been beautiful Nellie, worthy Nellie, not Nellie Boswell, wife of a wanderer and an adulterer, mother of five children whom she's not sure truly appreciate her anymore.

This Christmas they were going to go away, just the two of them. She hadn't told the family- she let them all make plans that involved her, as if good old Mam wouldn't mind whatever they came up with, as if good old Mam didn't have any ideas of her own- she was just going to sneak off with him on Christmas Eve, drive somewhere with him in that lovely car of his and spend a nice, wholesomely, hanky-panky-free but still romantic Christmas somewhere. Her gift to herself this year was going to be to allow herself the luxury of thinking of herself, of giving herself exactly what she wanted and not feeling guilty about what all the others were doing.

And then he had died. And there had gone that idea.

She's buried the gift she got for him on his grave. She doesn't know if he had anything for her, but she's got his dog now, a little part of him in canine form, and she supposes that counts, in a way. And she doesn't half love that little dog, more than she ever did Mongy, because it reminds her of some of the happiest stolen moments of her life.

There'll be no more stolen moments. No-one else will ever come along, and if they do, she knows it won't be the same. She doesn't want anyone else. Derek was perfect. No, she'll go back to the life she's always had, even if it no longer has the same lustre as it may have had in the past. She'll include herself in the family's Christmas plans, she'll go and see Adrian and his sons on Christmas Eve, go to Oswald's pathetic midnight church service for Aveline's sake. She'll make up a room for Joey and Martina to stay and she'll have Jack and Leonora and their child over for Christmas lunch, and she'll laugh and smile and say thank you for the presents they give her, and she'll say grace and thank the Lord for their unity, even though part of her doesn't believe in that unity anymore. And Billy will be there throughout it all, scoffing all the mince pies she makes until she can make no more. Perhaps even Freddie will drop in, and she'll get to have a traditional Christmas row, just to make the occasion complete. That's what Nellie Boswell's life is, and there's no escape from it anymore, no knight in shining armour to sweep her away for a few hours and treat her like a queen.

She's thankful for what she has, naturally. It could have been worse. She still does have Billy, and though he's an annoyance most of the time, at least he's _there_. She does still see Adrian and Aveline, and Jack's across the road, so at least she can see for herself how his life is progressing. And Joey has fully reverted to the man he was, to the pre-Roxy Joey, to the between-Roxy times Joey, more cheerful and playful and ever-mindful of the family's needs. And yes, she has so many reservations about Martina- Martina, who acted like such a little cow to her on her one trip to the DHSS, Martina, who proclaims herself both Catholic _and_ Protestant (_how_ can you be both? What does that make her? A pagan? She thinks they're 'virtually the same'- _Father, forgive her, she knows not what she says!)_ Martina, who lived in sin with _Shifty _for two years, Martina who clearly has issues but refuses to get herself seen to. But even she can't deny that Martina is a good influence on Joey, that since they've been married he's been that much happier, that much more his old self. He's getting a baby out of it, too- a proper one, one that's actually his, not just foisted off on him with a poison-pen letter because Roxy wanted some money- and that means Nellie gets another grandchild, one whom, she has been promised, will be baptised Catholic.

It's all good. She's thankful for it all.

But she still can't quite forget that Joey once _did_ throw all she'd done for him back in her face, can't chase the thought away that she _does_ get taken for granted, and that, really there's only ever been one person that has truly made her feel she's worth something more.

Can't forget that there once was a man named Derek, and he gave her paradise on earth.

'You were a good man,' she says a final time, blowing a kiss to his headstone. 'I'll always remember you.'

And she walks away, the little dog plodding along at her heels.

* * *

**Argh yes I killed Derek off! Don't shoot! *raises hands* I actually have nothing personal against Derek. I like Derek. But it occurred to me, reading back over ATEOTD, that I did not mention him once. Granted, that story was Joey-centric, but still. And when trying to explore Nellie's thoughts and motivation, I started thinking about what she might think and do once he wasn't there. **

**I do apologise for making this miserable- it is supposed to be a Christmas fic, after all. But then again, Bread isn't always a happy show. Some happier things will come though. **


	3. Adrian I: Can't get the eyes right

**Okay, chapter three. A bit of an odd direction to have taken, and forgive me if it seems a bit ridiculous at this stage. More will be revealed later.**

* * *

**Adrian**

He holds his thumb out and turns it to the side. He turns the canvas upside down, then the right way up again. He looks at it from a distance; he looks at it from up close. It doesn't matter what he does, it doesn't change.

The portrait has Carmen's eyes.

Adrian's not quite sure why that is, what _makes_ them look so distinctly Carmen-ish when they're shaped like Irenee's and coloured like Irenee's. They've even got that glimmer of simple excitement that Irenee's have. But nonetheless, when he looks at Irenee's portrait, Carmen stares back at him, accusing, enticing, punishing.

The kids look fine. He isn't having any trouble with the kids. He's been sitting them down one by one, making use of the time he gets with them when Irenee goes on one of her frequent jaunts out of town to sketch them into the surprise picture he's doing, then fleck in the light and the colours with a paintbrush, Jimmy sitting with a prim, almost female elegance, Harris slightly annoyed but nonetheless compliant, two-year-old Davey fidgety and impatient but able to be bribed with a big slab of gingerbread to stay more or less still. None of them look like anyone they shouldn't- they all look like…them.

It could just be that he's a perfectionist. Adrian wants this picture to be amazing, the perfect gift to Irenee, and, to boot, something to prove to her that there is something to be gained from the finer things in life, not just the simple ones like bubble baths and reading magazines. And painting Irenee from memory, and, when that fails, from photographs, isn't the same as painting from life- is it any wonder he can't get her just right, can't capture her as perfectly as he can the living specimens of their children?

Then again, it could be because of…that other thing.

In fact, it's more than likely because of that other thing.

Adrian wouldn't call his a fantastic marriage. An average marriage, maybe. They get on all right, he and Irenee, though her lack of appreciation for the arts, for music and poetry and fine paintings, for everything that gives him joy, frustrates him. She finds him supercilious, dull at times, the way he goes on about it, gets fed up with his attempts to put more romance and depth into their relationship, and he finds her ignorant and shallow…well, most of the time, if he's completely honest with himself. But their marriage works; they're doing a good job of raising their three sons, they've got a happily domestic routine, a lovely home, and if the conversation remains in the domain of casual, everyday things, they can have cosy chats in the evenings when the boys are asleep. When they go up to bed, Irenee tells him it's wonderful, and he believes her. It comes naturally to him with her, he's more at ease around her than he ever was with any of his other girlfriends. There are no nerves. He just…_does it_.

It's all he's ever wanted. It's good stuff, what he's got, the stuff of proper, grown-up life, the most realistic picture of happiness anyone could ever expect. People envy what he's got, and when he looks at his siblings- twice-married Joey whose first wife was a cow and second is a dole dragon, Jack who turns himself into a priss for Leonora and lives in the shadow of her dead husband, Aveline, who can't find a real sense of contentment with Oswald because of her refusal to let go of the model's lifestyle once and for all, Billy who…is just _Billy_, he feels he's drawn the biggest straw. Somehow, he's become the luckiest of the lot.

And it sickens him to think that he came a hair's breadth from throwing all that away.

It was an accident. One afternoon he'd walked into the parlour while Irenee was having one of her little get-togethers with her friends, and there she'd sat, Carmen, the blonde nymphomaniac from his past, still as voluptuous and enticing as ever. He's always known Carmen and Irenee were friends- he still remembers the shock when the earth had moved for them in that cornfield and Irenee had said, a hint of surprise colouring her tone, 'my friend Carmen said you were no good at it.' But to know that Carmen's lurking around somewhere and to see Carmen in the flesh are in two different leagues.

Still, he'd managed to bottle up his scream of shock, to nod _good afternoon_ to Irenee and her friends, to escape into the kitchen and almost miss the salacious wink that Carmen had discreetly sent in his direction. He'd been quite proud of himself for his restrained reaction.

And then she'd come round again. And again. And _again._ With the others, by herself, either way, he'd get home and she'd be there, giggling away with Irenee over a cup of coffee and a slice of teacake, sending him suggestive, sultry looks when his wife's back was turned.

And then. _Oh, then._ He'd come home and Carmen had been there. And Irenee had not.

'Hello, Adrian.'

He'd squeaked a reply.

'Isn't this nice, eh?' she'd said, sitting down in Irenee's armchair, crossing her long legs over the arm, swinging one ankle provocatively. 'You and me…just like old times…'

'H-how are you, Carmen?' He'd managed to choke out, quaking all over, because as soon as he'd come in and found her on her own he'd known what would inevitably happen.

'It's been a long time,' Carmen had hopped up again, walking towards him slowly, predatorily.

Stalking him.

He'd been a deer in headlights, some sort of cute creature from a children's cartoon frozen as the sharp-toothed villain of the piece hunted it down. But unlike in a children's telly programme, there was no smart-mouthed best-friend cartoon animal to rescue him from the jaws of death at the very last second, no-one and nothing to get him out of this moment. And Carmen's red, red lips had planted themselves on his before he could properly get his bearings, and everything else had followed, just as it had on all those afternoons in the bushes, long ago.

He hadn't stood a chance, really.

He hasn't told Irenee, and neither has Carmen. He hasn't even seen her since- she'd departed with a disappointed pout, and a parting remark of _Irenee said you were good at it now- but you haven't improved at all, have you?_ (Well how could she expect him to be any good? He was terrified out of his wits!) and life has gone on as normal. He's been to confession (four times, actually), written three love poems for his beloved wife, another about the precious gifts his beautiful children have been (all of them flavoured with intense guilt which, thankfully, no-one's picked up on)and has been determined never to mention it again.

He could get away with it. There's nothing to suggest Irenee will ever have to know, he knows he could just forget about it and have done with it, get _on_ with things, but Adrian's not that sort of person. Adrian's the type to lie awake in bed nights on end for the smallest of things, and this…this is bigger than the smallest of things. This is a tremendous, humongous _catastrophe_, and Adrian, being Adrian, having, as he does, the tendency to let unpleasant thoughts and worries fester in his mind forever and ever, feels he'll never get over this guilt. He's made perhaps the stupidest mistake known to man, and now his marriage, his secure relationship with Irenee, his little family, is hanging by a thread. _Hanging by a thread!_

A great, big, grand gesture of remorse, that's what this painting is, now. He'd been planning to do it anyway, to give her something for Christmas that she'd fawn and smile over, because unappreciative of the fine arts Irenee may be, but she goes teary over family sentiments just like the rest of them, and what better way to kill two birds with one stone than to gift her with a portrait of her and her children? He can give her the perfect present _and_ prove that art is a thing to be treasured, not sniffed at. That was the plan, anyhow.

Now the picture's just a monument to his guilt. It's Carmen that stares out at him, Carmen who sits with her arms around the effigies of his three sons, Carmen who's stealing the fruits of his creative inspiration.

_It was wonderful, Adrian_, her eyes say from Irenee's face. _You and me, like in the old days in the cornfield and by the stream…_

'No,' he says aloud, twitching with the urge to pick up his paintbrush and smatter black paint all over those accusing, tormenting eyes, to end this madness, 'stop it. You're out of my life now- _stop it!_'

'Dad?'

Adrian blinks and turns to see Jimmy standing behind him and sucking his thumb.

'Oh,' says Adrian, trying to snap out of it, because hysterics aren't exactly appropriate things to be displaying in front of a four-year-old, 'what are you doing up, son?'

He tries to model his fathering on Joey, on the way his older brother used to take care of him and the others when his mother was too hysterical and his father too…absent. He takes the calm but severe approach, has even found himself, unconsciously, using phrases like _cool it_ and _cut it_, (and once, even _sunshine)_ as he listens to their childish little squabbles. He does all right, using this method.

And like Joey, he's going to keep his personal anguishes to himself. Joey rarely revealed what was troubling him, with the result that everyone considered him a great mystery, an enigma that stood apart from them somehow, totally focussed on their troubles alone, and all the more loved and respected for it. And as such, Adrian is determined that his children won't know when he's worried. He plasters on a brave face, smiles down at Jimmy.

He's never been quite as good at the brave face as Joey, though. He senses his smile has come out all wrong, more a grimace than a look of reassurance, and this is confirmed when Jimmy frowns at him and takes his thumb out of his mouth.

'Are you upset, Dad?' he lisps, putting an awkward little hand out to touch Adrian's elbow, the nearest part of him he can reach.

'Upset?' Adrian forces a laugh. 'No, no- of course not! What makes you say that?'

'Don't you like the picture?'

Jimmy's question startles him. Where did his son get this perceptiveness from? Certainly not from Irenee- lovely she may be, a good wife and mother she may be- but clever she is not. He's not all that sure it's from him either- Adrian has always had a habit of thinking he's got it right while, in reality, he's completely missed the obvious. But Jimmy, in a basic, simple, toddlerish sort of way, has somehow hit the nail on the head.

'What do you think of it?' he asks the lad, hoping with his heart of hearts that if he lays the groundwork for the not-quite-a-lie about wanting it to be perfect, Jimmy will accept it and leave him alone. 'It just…if your Mam's gonna like it, it needs to look just right- and…and I don't think it does. I'm no good at painting, am I?'

That last remark is his feeble attempt to turn the whole thing into a bit of a joke.

Jimmy squints at it, studying it with an intensity that doesn't seem quite right for such a small child.

'It's nice,' he proclaims at last, clapping his hands together.

Adrian breathes a sigh of relief.

'We look good- me and Davey and Harris. And Mam looks pretty.'

'Thank you, son,' Adrian says, involuntarily clapping his hand over his heart. 'Thank you.'

'You_ are_ good at painting, silly!' Jimmy says, grinning at him and flashing all his pearly little teeth.

He gives Adrian another awkward pat on his elbow and bounds off in the direction of the stairs again, his thumb returning to its usual place between his lips.

'Er- Jimmy?'

The little boy stops mid-bounce and shuffles back towards him.

'Yeah, Dad?'

'Do you think it…_looks_ like Mam?'

Jimmy's fuzzy little eyebrows meet in the centre of his forehead. 'Yeah,' he says, twisting his little mouth with incomprehension. 'It looks _really good!_'

And he's away again, and Adrian is left alone with his creation. Jimmy hadn't spotted anything off with it. He's only four, after all, he can't be counted on to spot subtle flaws that even Adrian can't directly point out, because he's not sure what makes them so, but maybe, he thinks, aware that it's a bit of a pathetic hope, if his son can't spot the odd resemblance to Carmen, no-one else will either. Maybe, he thinks, screwing his eyes up tight and wishing as hard as he can, it's all in his imagination, that it only looks like Carmen because he's paranoid that it does, that when he turns around and looks at it again, he'll only see Irenee.

He opens his eyes slowly, moves round to face his artwork again.

_You're a tiger, Adrian. Wasn't it wonderful- you and me, on your wife's sofa…_

Oh, _no._ He claps his hands over his face. Is he doomed to have Carmen haunt him forever, like a demon, peering out of his Christmas gift to his wife? Is this to be his eternal torment, his punishment for what he's done?

He's got to straighten this out somehow. He's not entirely sure _how_- it isn't as if he can undo what's been done, after all, and he doesn't relish the idea of telling Irenee, feeling that that path would almost certainly lead to a separation or worse, and a marriage breakdown at Christmastime does not appeal to him in the least. But if only he could lay his fears about Carmen to rest, somehow, then perhaps when he looked at this painting he would only see Irenee.

It suddenly comes to Adrian, with alarming clarity, what he has to do. He's never yet been able to resist Carmen- to walk away from her without first giving into her demands. Even when he did break up with her, they still had their encounter in the bushes before he plucked up the courage to stride off, his shirt-tail flapping in the wind. If he ever wants to be free of that…that _temptress_, then the only thing for it is to confront her- to tell her he wants nothing to do with her- and to leave _without being seduced by her._

If he leaves things as they are, his last encounter with her will have been one of defeat, and it will live with him for the rest of his days, torturing him until the day he dies. Like it or not, Adrian is never going to be free of her sirenlike words and her wicked ways unless he sees her again. And this time, for the sake of his marriage and his children, for the sake of his sanity, he's got to stay _strong_.

Adrian tries to swallow away the lump in his throat. Oh, this is going to be tricky.

* * *

**Sorry again about any ridiculousness, but this thing with Carmen may not be what it seems... (also it is legit that Carmen is Irenee's friend in the show (s6e10)).**

**And yeah, one of Adrian's kids is called Harris...yeah. Could be named after Max Harris. Could be because Adrian has odd taste, who knows. Just happened. **


	4. Joey II: Postage Fraud

**In which people get unnecessarily worked up about little things. And there is Joetina. Enjoy.**

* * *

**Joey**

'Martina,' Joey says as the hour hand on the clock rolls towards five. No response. He props himself up on his elbow and looks over at her sleeping form.

Joey remembers the days when Martina would wrap herself around him in her sleep, getting a good stranglehold on him so it was all he could do to keep her from unconsciously crushing his windpipe. Now she sleeps facing away from him, curled in on herself as though trying to protectively cocoon her baby. Her arm is crossed over her stomach, a worried little frown on her face as she dreams. There's almost something childlike about her expression, the frets and fears of her past coming out when she's unaware they're doing so, and unable to stop them, and yet at the same time there's an already fierce motherly instinct causing her to want to shield her unborn daughter from her nightmares. It's hard to reconcile this vulnerable picture of a woman, frightened when no-one can see, with the stern, impenetrable, unbreakable statue who sits behind the counter of the DSS during the day. True she sometimes breaks down, sometimes allows glimpses of the tortured psyche behind her mask, but for the most part when she's at that desk, she's invincible, ruthless.

It's only now she's let Joey into her life that he sees the other sides of her- the lost, lonely little girl, still holding out for the return of her brother, the determined fighter, struggling back into a standing position after every paralysing setback, the caring wife, giving him everything she's got, supergluing his heart back together every time it breaks. So many different people- different, and yet somehow the same- all melded together inside one solemn-faced package, who's now sleeping beside him, wearing his ring, carrying his child.

And looking at her now, Joey just wants to grab hold of her and never let go, to soothe that subconscious frown off her face, whisper that he loves her and to stay like that always. He'd wanted to talk, had been wracked with guilt for keeping secrets from her, had had a good mind to wake her up right here and now and tell her he was trying to correspond with Oscar, but one look at her now and he can't bear to burden her with that. Martina has enough problems of her own, without having to shoulder his as well. And though she does, is willing to- has before, in fact, when Roxy was pestering him and his heart was shattering over Oscar all over again- to put her through all that again, when she's two months away from delivering their own baby, when her rationality is skewed by hormones and she's even more insecure than usual, would not, Joey realises, be wise.

Instead, he moves in closer to her, pulling his arm out from the blankets and placing it over her, his hand wrapping around hers and lightly resting on her stomach. Annabelle seems to be fairly still at the moment, perhaps calmed by her mother's rested state. Joey smiles as an image of a tiny, sleeping girl flashes through his head, and then leans over to kiss Martina's temple.

'Hrmph,' Martina mutters, her head jerking as she's partially roused from her dreams. Joey swallows sheepishly and stays still, hoping she's still sufficiently undisturbed that she can slip fully back into sleep. A few seconds pass, during which he can hear nothing but a faint breeze whistling outside and the gentle rustle of the bedclothes as Martina stirs. Joey shuts his eyes and tries to will himself into sleep, but the second his lashes meet an image of Oscar projects itself onto the back of his eyelids. A few little pins prick into his heart as he remembers Roxy answering the door to him, Oscar balanced on her hip, remembers the three of them stepping through the threshold of their first home together, Oscar running into the living room and immediately knocking over Roxy's favourite vase, and the pins become great knives as he remembers hugging the boy goodbye for the last time, the nausea building in his stomach and travelling up his throat as he realised Oscar was being borne away to London. He begins to shiver, teeth chattering, and before he knows it he's changed his mind again, and is half-sitting up, nudging Martina's shoulder.

'Hrmph,' she says again, trying to retreat under the covers.

'Martina?'

'Hmm?'

'Martina.'

'_What?!_' If she wasn't fully alert before, she certainly is now. Martina pulls herself up slowly- it takes her a long time now, now that she's got to drag the baby up with her- and turns to hit him with the full force of her annoyance.

Joey clocks her glare and immediately feels sheepish again._ What are you doin', son? You weren't gonna say anythin'…just leave her be!_

'Joey,' Martina growls, her teeth audibly grinding, '_what?'_

Joey thinks quickly.

'Er,' he gives an edgy laugh, 'I just wanted to ask you somethin'.'

'Go on.'

'Did you fix my new pen so it wouldn't play music anymore?'

Martina makes the most frustrated, disbelieving noise Joey thinks he's ever heard- and that's saying something when frustrated disbelieving notises make up a large percentage of Martina's conversation these days.

'You woke me up in the dead o' night to ask _that?_'

There's a heavy thump as Martina's pillow comes down on him.

'Ow,' says Joey, even though it didn't hurt, 'steady on, sweetheart!'

'Of all the pathetic-' another thwack, 'ridiculous, downright _daft_ reasons to…'

'Okay, sweetheart, okay!' Joey shields himself with his hands. 'I was just _wonderin'.'_

'Couldn't you 'ave waited 'til a reasonable hour to express your 'wonderings' to me?' She hisses through her teeth, ceasing her assault on him to reach across her bedside table and slide her clock closer. She leans right in, squinting, Joey guesses, at the clock face, and then lets out another groan of aggravation.

'_Oh,_ and I've only been asleep two hours an' _all!_'

Joey is subjected to another beating with the pillow.

'Okay, sweetheart, okay- settle down, won't you?'

'When _you're_ pregnant, and permanently exhausted, I'll wake _you_ up at unholy hours for trivial little reasons and see how _you_ like it!' She gives him one more whack for good measure. Joey tugs the pillow away from her and grabs her wrists, shushing her and kissing her forehead, pulling her close.

'Don't stress, Martina, please…' he holds her tighter, kisses her forehead again, then once more. 'I'm sorry, sweetheart- that was insensitive of me.'

'Yes,' huffs Martina, her voice muffled against his neck, 'it was.'

'I'm sorry, sweetheart,' Joey repeats, not sure what else he can say, given the circumstances. If he tried to defend himself that would mean admitting that he'd woken her up because of Oscar, and if she can't even take being disturbed for a joke, there isn't a hope in hell she'd understand _that_. Better to take the rap for being petty and inconsiderate and let the whole thing drop.

Joey presses his face into the top of her head and rocks her gently back and forth, comforting himself as much as her. It's hard, sometimes, it really is. Joey has no-one to go to for support- he's always needed to take care of everyone around him: his mother, his siblings, now his wife- and now Martina's out of sorts, turning into a wreck at the slightest thing, there's no-one to take care of him. He'd wanted her strength. He'd wanted to be able to unburden himself to at least one person, and to have them- well, not necessarily make it better, not even to console him or offer advice, but just to listen. Just to have heard. Just to have known, so he could have stopped hiding away his pain, so he could at least have had one person who understood if he suddenly went quiet, suddenly felt tears coming to his eyes. But he can't speak now without upsetting her, and that would merely constitute an additional problem, rather than alleviating his current ones. He's got to carry on suffering silently on his own, and letting everyone else lean on him without worrying he's going to fall over. He's got to keep suppressing his own pain as best he can, to make sure that he can be on hand for the people who need him. And until Martina's in a more stable condition, he's going to have to mope over his troubles by himself, and not try to foist them off on her when she can't take it.

'Go back to sleep,' he murmurs, easing them both back down, keeping his arms around Martina and letting her use him as a substitute for the pillow which is now somewhere on the floor. He lies there as the minutes and the hours crawl by, as the darkness slowly fades into light and Martina eventually drops back off, with his thoughts for companions and his guilt chewing away at his innards.

* * *

Of course, with the holiday season upon them and all the preparations and whatnot, Joey gets very little spare time after that to actually dwell on the matter. He's still got all his presents for everyone to sort out, and arrangements to make concerning Christmas Day- they're going to Kelsall Street, he knows that much, though whether they're staying Chrismas Eve and going home the next afternoon or staying Christmas night he hasn't quite ascertained- and, of course, he's got some quite brilliant fiddles to be pulling off before then.

'I got a phone call from one o' me old colleagues today,' Martina says when he comes into the kitchen a couple of afternoons later, her hands folded against the table top as if it were a DSS counter, wearing a half-mocking, half-grim expression that matches her posture and interrogating tone.

'Did you?' Joey plays along with the scenario, pulling out a chair and taking a seat opposite her, conjuring up a partition around them with his mind. He's missed their Social Security arguments these past few weeks- since Martina left work, going down there hasn't been the same. It's not half as much fun conversing with the other clerks- those dull, boring, unfriendly (and did he mention dull?) women who don't appreciate his cleverness at all, who can't even be bothered to _try_ opposing him in any creative sort of way at all, but merely give in straight away and hand over the required form, or simply say _no_ and call for the next customer without putting up a fight. He can almost feel his mouth watering now, in anticipation of a good, proper debate. Joey slings his coat over the back of his chair, ignoring it as it misses its target and slithers onto the floor, and prepares himself.

'She said you'd been hankerin' her for money to pay for…' Martina inhales before she begins, then spits out the word, '_postage_.'

Joey's mouth is already shaping into a response, but Martina keeps going.

'An extra twenty pounds a week for each member of your family, she said, for you and each member of your family, in order to send out some important _business correspondence_,' she makes little inverted commas with her fingers, and then leans forward across the table (as far as she can do without her baby bump getting in the way), her forehead creased and eyebrows raised.

'You do miss your job, don't you?' Joey says, blithely ignoring her. 'And after all the fuss you made about not being sorry to leave behind all the whinin' and the scroungin' and the _cheatin_'...but _really_, you don't know what to do with yourself without-'

'_At first_,' Martina says over the top of him, her eyes getting continually narrower until his gob closes, 'I wasn't sure what you were up to, Mister Boswell. I couldn't think of any reason why you'd want to claim extra money fer postage, nor what it was you could possibly be postin' that'd require fundin' for _that many_ extra stamps…'

She rises, crossing over to the kitchen counter.

'And then the mail came, and it all became clear to me.' She smiles malevolently as she sits back down, tossing a great big stack of envelopes onto the table.

Joey lunges for them, but Martina slams her hand down on top of the pile, pursing her lips in warning. With a very slow, deliberate sweep, she slides the envelopes back toward herself and plucks one off the top.

'Addressed to Joey Boswell…' she flips it over, 'sender Billy Boswell.' Martina tosses it aside and picks up the next one. 'Addressed to Joey Boswell, sender Jack Boswell…Joey Boswell, sender Billy Boswell again, this one's addressed to Martina Boswell, sender… 'the most handsome husband of them all…''

'Lovely gesture, that one, wasn't it?'

'Is this the extent o' your brilliant plan, then? The lot o' you sendin' an 'undred million Christmas cards to each other so you can claim extra money fer postage?'

'It's one of them…' Joey murmurs, before flashing her his nicest smile. 'You see, if we claim the money each and pool it, then send the cards as proof we've been posting, and hence the money is justified, it means we can gain a profit of…'

'I don't think I want ter hear this, Mister Boswell,' Martina reaches her arm across the table and puts a finger on his lips. 'Wonderful as it would be to achieve me lifelong dream and expose you as a benefit fraud, it's not really in keeping with the spirit o' the season to send one's husband ter gaol now, is it?'

'Aw, bless.' Joey kisses the finger that's pressed against his mouth.

'I suppose this explains why there are no stamps left in the desk drawer, does it?'

'It might do…' he says, reaching around her to retrieve one of the envelopes. He turns it over, noting that the flap has been torn away.

'Been openin' my post, sweetheart? That's illegal, you know!'

'So is defraudin' the Social Security, but you don't 'ave any moral objection ter that, do you?'

'Defrauding the Social Security? Would I do such a thing?'

'I'm not gonna bother to answer that,' Martina says, leaning back in her chair and clasping her hands together again. 'But there will be no more Christmas cards from your family comin' through our letterbox, will there?'

Joey says nothing, just stares at his hands, picking a stray bit of skin off his thumb.

'_Will-there?_'

'_No_, Martina,' Joey says with pretend meekness. He rises and comes round the other side of the table, resting his hands on her shoulders.

'So,' he begins, as Martina sighs and leans back against him, 'Christmas Day- are we stayin' the extra night?'

She groans. 'What for?'

'Because, sweetheart,' Joey grins into her hair, 'you know you just _love_ spendin' days and days with my fam-i-ly, don't you?'

'Oh, God,' Martina mutters. 'Days an' _days.'_

Joey snickers. 'Ah, but don't you just _adore_ bein' around all me brothers- and listenin' to Billy's woes and Adrian's neuroses and Jack's complaints about the world…isn't it just your favourite pastime?'

Another groan from his wife, and Joey laughs more audibly. Martina does nothing _but_ complain about his family- but he's never minded. When Martina grumbles about the rest of the Boswells, she does it in jest, in a sort of _but-deep-down-I-love-them-really_ sort of way. When it comes down to it, she'd never hold him back from seeing them, would never really resent a trip to Kelsall Street. Unlike Roxy, who'd made it plain she hated them, who…no, he won't think about that now. It just reminds him that he hasn't gotten around to taking that card for Oscar down to his solicitor, that it's still tucked in his coat pocket. He swallows down the butterflies that are starting to flutter up his throat, tries to push the thought to the back of his mind.

_No sadness in front of Martina. Not happening. Not at Christmas._

'Come on, sweetheart,' he forces himself to exude sweetness and obnoxious cheer. 'It's win-win! You get to spend even more time with all the Boswells, whom you _love so dearly_, and I don't have to drive home that afternoon so I can 'ave a drink or two!'

'Oh, I _knew_ there was an ulterior motive somewhere in all that butterin' up.' She turns around, craning her neck to gaze up at him and shoot him a twisted smile.

'Ulterior motive? Since when 'ave I _ever_ had an _ulterior motive_, eh?' Joey releases her and walks around the table, leaning heavily against it and posing. 'Do you honestly look at me and see the sort of man who'd go around makin' plans with _ulterior motives_ involved?'

He gets her to snicker, though she does everything in her power to cover it up. She's never liked to admit she's got a sense of humour.

Joey picks up on the cue, though, and he puts more of his weight against the table, exaggerating the pose. His elbow nudges the stack of envelopes, and they go skittering across the wood and fluttering to the floor.

Martina shakes her head, and he can almost see a channel of sarcastic and amused comments running through her mind, tumbling over each other and competing to get out of her mouth first.

He leans over and kisses her before they can, trapping them inside her head, before stooping down to retrieve the evidence of his Christmas scam.

Martina's chair squeals as it scrapes the floor, and in a moment too quick for Joey's liking she's on her hands and knees beside him, gathering up the cards.

'Eh- you shouldn't be doin' that! I'll take them…' he reaches toward the pile she's collected, and she pulls them away.

'Oh, no you don't. You honestly think I'm gonna 'and 'em back over ter you so you can carry on with yer scheme? There could be some sort o' code 'idden inside 'em for all I know! They're confiscated until further notice.' She moves a bit further under the table, making for a stray envelope that's lying a few feet away from the others and sweeping it towards herself.

'And pick yer coat up,' she adds, jerking the card she's just retrieved in the direction of his crumpled leather jacket, before leaning her arm against the seat of her chair and slowly hoisting herself to her feet. Joey smirks at her, waiting before she's left the room with the evidence of his Social Security fiddle before delving under the kitchen table for his coat.

There are a few streaks of dust on it, and as Joey brushes them off, his hand moves instinctively for the inside pocket and the card concealed within.

He feels nothing.

His fingers desperately fumble in search of a flat surface, of pointy corners sticking into the fabric, but nothing comes to light. He searches and searches again, his movements becoming quicker and more agitated, even though he's grasped by this time that it isn't there. Joey keeps on looking regardless, slaps his hands around on the kitchen floor even though there's evidently nothing there, because to stop looking now would be to confirm the panicked thought that has begun to settle in his mind. He blinks and is overcome by the horrifying image of that one lone envelope, lying separate from the others he'd knocked to the floor not, he realises, because it had merely fallen that way, but because it had fallen from a different _place_. And then, as the grave implications of this are setting in enough to tear his nerves to ribbons, the image of Martina picking it up parades into his brain to rub salt into the wound.

Joey sits there for a moment, on the floor, under the table, paralysed, trampled on by his thoughts.

Oh, no. _No_.

She's going to see it. She's going to read it. She's going to be upset, and she's never going to trust him again, his brain tells him, jumping immediately to the most unpleasant conclusion, to the worst case scenarios. He's normally the calm one, the together one, the one who always thinks rationally when others around him are not, but now _what-ifs_ are dancing a ghoulish dance in his mind, hopping from one fear to another until possibility of Martina leaving him as a result of this seems, to him, quite real.

Joey sits a moment more, letting this idea stab him in the chest, and then he gets up off the floor with lightning speed, ignoring the fact that he bumps his head against the underside of the table, the words _I've got to get the card back_ hurling themselves against his eardrums as he sprints out to find her.


	5. Nellie II: Going, going

**And another Nellie one awaits. I do apologise for this and some of the oddness of it, part of this was written when I was heavily influenced by wine and uni stress a few months back. Also, Nellie is really rather lost at the moment, hence all her wistfulness and her at times unfollowable logic.**

* * *

**Nellie**

Days fall away, layer after layer peeled off until the core is only a few more petals away, until Christmas is almost on Nellie's doorstep. But no childish anticipation comes with the nearing of the day, just a sinking, gloomy feeling, a wistful sort of mourning of nothing, and the loss of everything. As ever second ticks closer she can't help but be reminded that she's counting down to nothing, that the day holds little significance. She's still got her faith, there's still that significance to it, the most wondrous of holy days, and she will still celebrate that, but no longer does it hold any other excitement for her. All those ideas that Christmas is also a day for family seem hollow now. She feels, as she soaks the fruit for the pudding and gets herself a turkey and ties bows around gifts that she's no longer a mother pleasing her children, but merely play-acting, a performer so well-rehearsed in the role that she can no longer remember what life was like before she was cast.

They don't really care.

Sometimes, she thinks, maybe she doesn't care either.

She dusts out Joey's old bedroom, moves all the knick-knacks and rubbish that have begun to accumulate in there into the wardrobe, pausing to run her hand over a feathery bolero that pays tribute to this room's days as Aveline's boudoir before tossing it into the closet with the rest. Funny, she thinks, looking at the bolero in its garishly pink glory, then at one of Joey's old jackets lying beside it, how life passes you by so quickly and at the same time every change seems not to be real. She remembers when Aveline was a yowling baby and this her nursery. She remembers when Aveline, at sixteen, had picked out that purple leopard-print wallpaper and asked Joey and Jack to put it up for her, because it was 'stylish', and _a model's room has to reflect her style, doesn't it?_ She remembers when Aveline moved out of it, when most of her belongings were stuffed into boxes and delivered, courtesy of the Boswell entourage, over to the vicarage at St. Mary's, and how barely a week later Joey was set up in there, the bed sporting black silk sheets and the wardrobe full of leather, though Joey hadn't ever quite gotten round to fully redecorating.

She remembers it being empty. She remembers it being used by Joey when her eldest had wanted to be nearer to Grandad when he'd had his most recent fall.

She remembers it being empty again.

And yet, though she remembers each change, each of the room's previous states is still just as vivid, she finds, just as clear an image as everything she can see now, right in front of her eyes.

So it is, she realises, with many things. She remembers what it was like to feel she had a husband. She remembers what it was like to feel she had a real family. She remembers what it was like to feel she had Derek in her life. And she can feel all these things, all at once, at the same time as she's feeling lonely and underappreciated and like none of these feelings mean anything anymore.

She sits down on the bed, aware that she hasn't finished changing the sheets but not concentrating on that. A rebellious thought has taken her. She wants to fight it, she wants to stop it, but by the time she's realised it's there it's too late for all that. It's already stormed the fortress of her mind. She's already let it in.

She _was_ going to go away with Derek, and they were to have Christmas to themselves. Somewhere out there, there's still a booking for a twin room (not double- she'd insisted) in a plush hotel. She can't go with _him_, not now he's gone. But she could still _go_. It wouldn't be the same, but she could _go_, she could just up and leave and leave them to sort themselves out, as they left her to do when they started monopolising their own lives and shutting her out of them. She could sit on her own in peace, perhaps with the dog, her little friend, her little link to her almost-love, and just think.

Maybe she will, Nellie thinks, getting up and resuming making the bed. Maybe she'll go. No, she thinks as she puffs up the pillows and walks out, shutting the door behind her. She _will_ go. She'll go away on her own, and no, it won't be the same, but she'll still be with him, in a way. She can remember Derek without any guilt or any interruptions, and forget everyone else.

For a minute, everything she's ever thought has dissolved. From the moment she got married, all Nellie Duvall had wanted was to love and take care of her family. And for many years, Nellie Boswell had devoted every minute of her life to doing just that.

But all of a sudden, she doesn't want that. She doesn't _want_ it. She doesn't see the _point_. All her years of devotion have gotten her to a miserable place- a miserable place that's miserable just because it _is_, because even though she's still got people to love and care for, none of it seems worthwhile.

She'll go, she decides. She won't let on that she's going- she's not sure why, but she wants to keep it a secret up until the last moment. She'll still prepare everything as if she were planning to stay, but then she'll vanish on the morning of Christmas Eve, leave a note saying she'll be back- because she will be back, this won't be forever- and be on a train before they're any the wiser. And everything will have been set up, so all the rest of them can carry on- they can all still stay at Kelsall Street if they like, and that way Grandad will still be taken care of, and they won't have to change any plans, but she won't be there.

She will be back. This won't be forever. But Nellie needs to get away from everything, if only for a while. The family that have always been her source of great comfort and joy are suddenly stifling her, crushing her with responsibility and duty. And she loves them so much, but suddenly she can't bring herself to think that they love her the same way, and all she wants is not to be around them.

She might be going mad. It might be some sort of grieving process she's going through, a delayed reaction to Derek's death that's making her do drastic things, or maybe her grief for the fact that she'd been romanced, and had never felt more worthy and loved, but whether it's one of those reasons, or a combination of all three, she feels if she doesn't have an escape from her family, just for a few days, she'll lose her mind.

She'll come back, of course. She may be experiencing some sort of odd resentment towards the people she loves, she may be convinced within herself that they don't need her, but she does need them, and she'll come back. Hopefully, she'll come back refreshed, and they'll take up as always, and she'll be quite happy to be back where she belongs.

But she _will_ go.

* * *

The front door bangs open as she comes downstairs.

'It's not yours anymore!'

'It was once, remember?'

'Yeah- _once_, years ago, not now! I've 'ad it with you bargin' into my 'ome…'

'It was _my _home…'

'_Was! Not anymore!'_ Jack's voice is deep and booming and furious, a contrast to Billy's childishly shrill cries, though equally loud. Between them they're going to give Nellie the headache to end all headaches.

'I'm warnin' you now, son, if you burst in on me an' Leonora one more time, just because you want another look at Julie's wallpaper or Julie's carpet, then I…'

'Then you'll what? I'm not afraid of a man 'oo wears a pansy cloth hat when 'e's washin' the windows…'

'_Look_,' Jack seems to be trying to throttle Billy now, is shaking him by his shirt with one hand while the other tries to grab at his throat as he continues to threaten his younger brother about his fate, should he go over the road on some wistful, Julie-related pretext again. Nellie doesn't like it when Jack has one of his aggressive bouts, would normally be tempted to say something and tell the pair of them off, but instead she swans into the kitchen, floating along on a wave of apathy. She'll be more in the mood for all this when she returns after Christmas, having been cleansed of the lot of them for a while.

When she emerges with a mug of tea in her hand, they're still at it. She shakes her head, thinks about turning and retreating again but instead sinks into the armchair, ignoring them while they battle it out.

'Ryan 'asn't been sleepin' well- Leonora is out of 'er mind worryin' about 'im! And the last thing we need when it's 'ard enough to get a bit o' peace on an evenin' is _you_ comin' stormin' around the house rantin' about Julie!'

'Oh, boo hoo, Ryan can't sleep!' Billy lands on the sofa so heavily a part of Nellie's brain becomes preoccupied with what might happen if he breaks it. 'If that's the worst _you_ get as a father, you're lucky! Julie's takin' Francesca to Ibiza for Christmas with _Julian_ and I won't even get to see 'er, and even when I do see 'er I always have to shell out loads o' money for dancin' lessons and swimmin' lessons and ridin' lessons and everythin' else Julie thinks she should 'ave, and you'd think she'd be grateful but…'

'…but she never is, because Julie's taught 'er to have no respect for 'er father,' Jack finishes through gritted teeth, '_yeah, I know_, I've 'eard it an 'undred times! It's about time you realised you're not the only one who 'as problems, and just because not everyone 'as the same pathetic sort of relationship with their kids as you- and just 'cause I don't go yellin' my problems out in public for the 'ole _world_ to hear doesn't mean I don't _have_ any!'

'Yeah, _yeah_,'Billy has been in a particularly filthy mood all week, and has taken to shouting this refrain in a rather rude tone whenever anyone tries to correct him about anything. He snatches up his Walkman from the coffee table, shoving his headphones down over his ears and turning up the volume so loudly that Nellie can hear every word of the vulgar song he's listening to. Jack keeps on yelling at him, and Billy just sings along to his song, bobbing his head dramatically.

Nellie concentrates on making her tea last, _I'm going away at Christmas_ floating around and around her head like a mantra. No, not a mantra. She was raised a good Catholic, thank you very much. But some sort of slogan, anyway. It keeps her head up, keeps her shoulders from sagging.

'You _are_ a selfish, spoilt lit'le bastard, aren't you?' Jack's had more than enough, it seems- much like Nellie herself. He lunges across the settee, snatching the Walkman away from his brother, the headphones snapping out of it so that Billy is yanked forward a foot or two, and hurling it across the room.

'_Eh!_ You've BROKEN IT NOW, YOU UNFEELING-'

Nellie can't take any more. They're grown men- thirty-seven and twenty-seven, and still no more mature than they were ten years ago, no more than they were _twenty_ years ago or more, come to think of it. She can envision fights like this at every stage of their lives. And, though she knows that this is supposedly the joy of being a mother, that she should be thankful for such spirited children, but all she can think now is that she's sick of it. She's had enough. The idea of being on her own for Christmas is looking more glamorous by the minute. She gets up in the midst of their squabbling and walks very slowly, very quietly, very calmly out the door and into the street.

She can still hear Billy's shouts from within the house- _nobody cares tuppence about me_, and then _Mam, can't you send 'im back home?!_

She pays no heed to the cries, forcing down her natural instinct to either rush in or make a snatch for a phone and call Joey to help her sort it all out. Instead she stands in the fresh (well, lead-ladened, but fresher than indoors) air, feeling the breeze in her curls and under her apron and breathing until her distress slips to the back of her mind, and the thought of her trip takes centre stage, comforting her with its pleasing presence.

'Eh! Oi! You there!' The door to number Twenty-Eight swings open just a crack, and Grandad's head pokes round, a shaking, arthritic hand curling around the door knocker. 'It was lunch time two hours ago! I can't wait any longer for me tea!' The hand retracts, the head retreats, the door slams, but not with much force- he's getting weaker with every passing day, as is his memory. It's not uncommon to be referred to as _you there_ nowadays. Nellie sighs and turns back to the door of her own house, wondering with resignation what sort of selection of cakes she should prepare for her aged father. Another one who doesn't appreciate her- granted, it's not his fault; he is, after all, over eighty and going a little soft in the head, but it still adds to the total. The whole, entire family. All of them, taking her for granted, thinking of her as the woman who cooks the meals, who cleans the house, who has nothing better to do than to be part of their dramas, who doesn't and never did have any dreams or plans of her own.

_I'm going away_, she reminds herself. She does have a dream and a plan, whether they realise it or not, and she's going to go and live it, or at least do the best she can, considering there's now no-one to share it with.

Something soft brushes against her calf, and Nellie smiles down as Derek's dog- no, _her_ dog now, she has to remember- comes and sits beside her, tongue hanging out as it stares across the street at nothing in particular.

'Aww,' she says, some of her annoyance melting as she pets him. Just being close to the dog cheers her- it's as if Derek is coming back somehow, or sending him as a little messenger to comfort her. She stays on her haunches for a while, stroking it and grinning as it turns its head and flicks its tongue over her fingers. As they sit like that, and as Jack walks past her and storms back over the road, seemingly unaware of her presence or at the very least having something more pressing than his mother on his mind, Nellie thinks of something.

Billy needs a new Walkman now. He's the only one she hasn't yet gotten a Christmas present for, and it would be the ideal gift- Billy loves to listen to music in bed, much to the irritation of anyone trying to sleep within ten feet of him, and now his device has been destroyed he'll be sulking tremendously. She can picture the delighted smile on his face as he opens it, as he tears it out of its box without reading the card attached to the wrapping, too tactless to acknowledge Nellie's choice or thank her for it, but grateful in his own, Billy-ish way.

But she won't be there to _see_ him open it, she realises. She's going away. For a moment Nellie's just slightly torn. She wants to see her son happy on Christmas Day. She wants to see them all happy, and know that she's at least partly the cause.

But she wants to do something for herself, too. And, after all, isn't she entitled to that? Isn't she entitled to be happy too, to have something nice done for her, instead of it always being the other way round?

She's still going, she thinks, standing up and clasping her hands firmly together. She's definitely still going.


	6. Adrian II: Gateacre

**I realised the other day I don't think I've done a disclaimer for this fic so: Bread belongs to Carla Lane not me.  
**

**Anyhow, new chapter. In which everyone is a confused mess and nobody is particularly helpful.**

**NB: I did some research for this chapter on Gateacre and looked up some street maps to make it as accurate as possible. I apologise for anything erroneous- seeing as I don't live near there I've had to rely on internet sources and online maps for my information, and I know that doesn't compare to being there. Still. I tried. **

* * *

**Adrian**

He doesn't really want advice. With advice will come judgement and scorn, will come refrains of _how-could-you-do-this_ and disgusted looks from whoever he tells, even if they're not so innocent themselves. But Adrian thinks about it long and hard, and comes to the conclusion that he cannot simply take on this mammoth task of setting things right without some sort of support first. He is, after all, a bit of a wimp.

He leaves the kids with the lady next door, who's kind, old and a bit barmy, and will no doubt stuff them with unpleasantly floury fruitcake before his return, takes his motorbike rather than the car and rides out into the world, the scenery slowly melting around him from the dense and dark city to more open and verdant streets. Adrian slows drastically as he comes off the A5058 onto Woolton Road, sitting up straighter on his bike and taking more care for the simple fact that the closer he comes to Gateacre, the more intimidated he begins to feel. It seems like the sort of place where one daren't breathe wrong, with its great big estates and ostentatiously old, Tudor-Style buildings, which seemingly stare at him with disapproval as he rides past.

He remembers wondering, when a naïve, teenage Billy had been insistent they'd all move here one day, if Gateacre wouldn't up and move somewhere else, and now, he thinks as he passes the snobbier areas, the conservation areas, the houses which scream affluence and pretention, he was right to do so. If the Boswell family had come here as some rowdy gestalt entity they would have probably lowered the bar for their whole neighbourhood. Jack and Billy between them would have turned their street into some sort of overdecorated black market, with their antiques and their sandwiches and their shouting and skulduggery.

Joey manages all right here, of course, but then Joey's of a different mould. He's got style, has Joey. He could walk into Buckingham palace in a leather jacket and ear-ring and still look perfectly at home, somehow.

There was a time when Adrian would have considered himself of the same mould as Joey, at least to some extent. He'd never quite have reached that level of flowing, oozing grace, but he flattered himself to think he was a tad more sophisticated than Jack, Aveline and Billy, what with his more sensitive, intelligent, artistic mind and all. He could probably have fit in, he would have thought, with a bit of effort.

He's not quite sure what to think of himself now. He's a poet and a painter with A-levels and a previous career in real estate and as a personal assistant, but he's also a father and a disgraceful, cheating husband. He feels about as low as the rent on a burning building, as the saying goes, not noble or worthy in any way. He can almost hear scoffs of disapproval echoing around him at his disgusting unfaithfulness, or, at the very least, his pathetic weakness for not being able to put up more of a fight against Carmen, for not being able to help it. It's preposterous, of course- nobody knows about it, nobody's even _around,_ save a man trimming the hedges in one garden he passes- but even so, in Adrian's mind the whole world is scowling at him.

His bike slows down again, this time right down to a snail's pace, as he reaches Joey's driveway. His elder brother's house would, without a doubt, fall under the heading _pretentious_, as do most of his accoutrements- it's got a sloping roof, probably once thatched but now replaced with tiles, and the exterior has been done up so of the original façade, only the bay windows remain- it's the sort of place that could look either tasteful and modern or a bit too noveau-riche, but somehow looks impeccably good either way _simply because it belongs to Joey_. His trademark '50s Jag is parked at an angle in the driveway, and Adrian has to put his bike on the lawn to ensure he doesn't park too close and scratch the paint.

All this Joey-grandeur around him makes him unconsciously brush dust off his jacket and smooth down his hair, even though he's come here to seek solace and comfort in his elder brother. He shudders as he reaches for the knocker, praying with every inch of his being that Joey will be the one to answer the door, and not Martina. He's come to accept Martina as a sister-in-law - he's had to, they all have, they've got no choice now Joey's married to her- but he still can't help being afraid of the woman who first destroyed his confidence by turning him into a number. Working up the courage to tell her to 'stick it' had been one of the most nerve-wracking things he'd ever done, and he'd only really managed because he'd been labouring under the misapprehension that that would be the last time he'd ever see her. It hadn't been. He'd been back in that daunting DSS again before he knew it, and then, as though that hadn't been trauma enough, Joey had decided, after failing miserably at marriage, that he was going to try it again with _her_. Adrian still doesn't fully understand how _that_ came about. He'd ask, but he's too frightened to. Anyway, he's not sure he wants to know.

No answer, so he knocks again. They have to be in- Joey's car is right there, after all. The lock on the door clicks, and Adrian freezes as it slowly opens.

'Adrian?'

'Oh, thank goodness!' Adrian cries upon hearing Joey's voice, not _hers_, then bites his tongue at his lack of tact. Joey doesn't seem to notice, though- there's an odd sort of worry on his face.

'Adrian?' Joey repeats, and then he frowns. 'That was probably the worst timin' in history, son!'

'Are you two havin' a row?' he asks timidly.

Joey shakes his head.

'Oh,' Adrian says, his eyes travelling unwittingly to Joey's trousers and the dust all over them, not sure what's going on but certain that's another thing he'd rather not hear about. 'If you're busy, I'll just…'

Joey follows his gaze and shakes his head. 'No, no, son! I was pickin' up some envelopes that fell on the floor...got summat mixed up with them…' Joey's words start to die away and the panic returns to his face.

'…terrible mistake…' Adrian hears him mutter to himself.

'I'll just…' he tries again but Joey puts a hand on his shoulder.

'No sweat, son, no sweat. I've just got to…sort somethin' out, that's all.' He ushers Adrian in and immediately stalks off into the parlour.

Adrian stares after him, befuddled, and follows.

'Envelopes, envelopes…' Joey's muttering, demolishing a stack of magazines and tossing them everywhere. 'Where would she have put them…I can't just…'

'Er- Joey?'

Joey's head snaps up, his eyes wild, a magazine scrunched in his hands.

'What are you trying to do?'

Joey sighs and sits, putting his head in his hands.

He mutters something which sounds uncannily like _careless_. Adrian raises an eyebrow.

'Joey?'

'You know those Christmas cards me and Billy and Jack were sendin'?' he asks, abruptly raising his head.

'Martina told you off about those, then? Well, I hate to admit it, but I always thought it was a bad idea, that's why-'

'That's not what's buggin' me, son. Sufficed to say, I need to get them all back, before she fi-' Joey trails off and shakes his head. 'Never mind, son. Never mind. I'll sort it out.'

He shakes his head one more time, as if trying to shake thoughts off like water droplets from a dog's coat, leans back onto the sofa and crosses his legs.

'What did you want, then, son?'

'I need advice,' Adrian says, and then looks down at his shoelaces. Out the corner of his eye he sees Joey lean in a little, waiting for the rest of it. Adrian bites his lip, undoes and redoes one of his laces, fidgets.

'About what?'

Adrian fidgets some more, desperate to get the words out, and at the same time desperate to find something else to say, so that Joey need never know about his shame. He fumbles and thinks, but nothing springs to mind to save him.

'Carmen.' The name tumbles from his mouth uninvited, the spectre of the beautiful and frightening blonde haunting him into invoking her presence yet again.

Joey gives him an odd look. 'Carmen?'

_It was just a slip_, he wants to say, _I meant to say Irenee, of course I did, I was just missing Irenee, that's all_. But instead the truth just slips out, and he's babbling it all to Joey- Carmen turning up, the afternoon he'd found her on her own, the guilt, the painting, the whole lot. _Stop!_ his brain is bawling, but it comes and it comes, every single one of his neuroses about the affair stringing out in front of his brother.

He waits for judgement, for sympathy, for anything. Nothing comes. Joey clasps his hands and twiddles his thumbs, studying the thumbnails.

'What d'you think I should do, Joey? I want to confront Carmen and tell her it was a mistake…'

'So do that.'

'But that won't undo the…what I did, will it? How can I ever look Irenee in the eye again?' He swallows. 'I can't even look her _portrait_ in the eye.'

Joey seems to be biting his tongue. 'Well, I don't…know what I can say to you, son. Like you said, it's done, isn't it?'

'If it were you…' he begins.

'It wouldn't be.'

Joey's tone is a little harsher than Adrian had been expecting. He recoils. He _is_ judging him. He _does_ disapprove.

Adrian's face must betray his distress, because Joey's eyes soften and turn down at the corners.

'What I mean is, son- I know you didn't mean any harm by it. We've all seen you in a state of Carmen-shock- _oh, yes, Carmen, it was wonderful…oh…'_

'Don't start all that again!' Adrian cries. There were enough mockeries of his relationship with Carmen at the time, and his nerves are hanging by a thread as it is without being subjected to more taunts.

'Well, _anyway_,' Joey flashes him an _I-meant-no-offense_ smile, 'what I mean was that…see…when Roxy…when she…' it takes him a few attempts to get it out, 'when she cheated on me…it, well, it hurt like hell, if I'm honest with you.'

'Oh, Joey, that's different! Roxy did it out o' spite- you know I didn't plan-'

'I know, son, I know,' Joey puts his palms out, 'just let me finish, okay? Look, once you know somethin' like that, the trust is gone. You can never look at the other person the same way- no matter how much you love them, you can't ever 'ave that feelin' of…well, they don't feel like they're yours anymore, d'you see what I'm sayin'?'

Not what he wanted to hear. Not at all what he wanted to hear. The guilt starts hammering at Adrian even harder than before, and he doubles over as though he's been punched in the stomach.

'You're right, Joey,' he whimpers, 'you're right…I've lost 'er because o' this…I knew my marriage was 'angin' by a thread- _'angin' by a thread_, it was- and I _still_ went and did it, and I…' he fumbles frantically around for something to hyperventilate into, and Joey is forced to grab a vase off him before he inadvertently suffocates himself.

'Look, Adrian, you're gonna have to pull yourself together, son! Yes, maybe you did do somethin' _really stupid_…'

Adrian snatches at the vase at that remark, and Joey moves it right away, reaching behind him and putting the vase behind the sofa, where Adrian can't get hold of it.

'But,' says Joey rather sternly, '_but_- goin' to pieces isn't gonna fix it, is it? Like I said, you can't just go and undo it- the only thing you can do is try and forget it now! Right? Right.'

He sighs, slamming his head back against the back of the sofa. Adrian sits and observes him.

'Forget it.'

Joey closes his eyes. 'Yes.'

'Forget it?'

'Well, what would you rather do? Go crawlin' in to Irenee wearin' sackcloth and ashes?'

'Of course not, but-'

'_Adrian_,' Joey says, 'you asked for my advice, and I'm givin' it. I'm not sayin' what you did was right, or that you should keep on with it, or anythin' like that, but for your own sake- _and _Irenee's, don't go confessin' to her. You'll only do more harm that way.'

Adrian's mouth falls open. 'Are you askin' me to be deceitful… to my _wife_? Is that what you do to Martina?'

Something comes over Joey's face for a minute, but he chases it away with a just slightly less than realistic grin.

'Oh, you can't try and deceive Martina- she'd know.' He laughs, but it sounds a bit odd, a little…_guilty_, almost, but Adrian doesn't bother to try and interpret that- he's given up trying to figure Joey out. Joey is beyond interpretation.

'I'm not sayin' _be deceitful_, anyway, am I? You made an enormous mistake- a dreadful mistake, no doubt about that…'

_Thanks_, Adrian thinks. He could do without the extra little nips of guilt when his own remorse is still mercilessly stinging him.

'But you didn't mean it, you've beat yourself up about it and punished yourself an 'undred times over already, I'd wager- there's no need to go and blow up your marriage on top of all that. The best thing to do would be to let this particular sleepin' dog lie. Let it fade into the background of your memory. Go on livin' your life. Just be sure to _learn_ from this little incident, okay? Don't repeat it.'

'And you think that makes it all right?'

'Well, no, but…there's not much more I can say, is there?' Joey's raking both hands through his hair now. 'It isn't me who's bein' affected by this, but from experience, there's nothin' more painful than bein' told your spouse has been seein' someone else. Roxy did that to me- and it was _cruel_. Like I said, it hurt like hell. There's a difference, though.'

He holds up one finger.

'Roxy meant it to be hurtful. You didn't. You just had…a lapse in common sense. You're always havin' those…'

'Oi!' says Adrian.

'…and you've regretted it ever since. So learn from it, move on, and don't hurt Irenee the way Roxy did me. Make it up to her. Be the best husband you can be from now on. Be sure not to let her down again. That's the best I can do, I'm afraid, Adrian. I can't magically flip you back in time to undo what happened- you're just gonna have to live with it.'

Secretly, some childish part of him _had_ been wishing Joey could magically undo what had happened, even though he knows that's impossible, and it takes Adrian a few goes to bring himself to thank his brother.

'Oh, and Adrian?' Joey sits up a little straighter. 'I think you probably _will_ have to go and talk to Carmen. Let her know it was a mistake and that it's never gonna be repeated. You don't want her to think it's all on again, or knowin' her, she might just keep comin' back and you'll wind up havin' an affair you didn't plan for.'

Adrian had known all along he was going to have to do that, but hearing it come from Joey confirms the doom-laden sentence in his mind. He nods, feeling himself shudder.

'Come on, eh, son,' Joey reaches over to clap him on the back. 'Let's go and get us some coffee- and how about a drop o' somethin' in it to calm our nerves?'

Adrian nods and lets Joey guide him to his feet.

'_Our _nerves? What exactly _are_ you nervous about?' he asks as he's propelled in the direction of Joey's liquor cabinet.

Joey stiffens, but does a commendable job of stashing away his worry once again. 'Oh, nothin'. Never you mind.'

He winks for some reason- Joey winks a lot, either after he's made what he thinks is a punishingly witty quip, when he thinks he's being super-suave, or, Adrian's noticed, just to fill in a gap in the conversation, to make it _look_ as if he's pulled off a charmingly, suavely witty comment. Adrian would be tempted to say it's the latter Joey's doing right now.

Oddly enough, Joey rootles through several drawers in the credenza before turning his attention to pouring out their brandy- whatever he's nervous about, it's certainly not 'nothing.' It's working him up as much as this Carmen thing is eating at Adrian.

Adrian considers having another go at asking Joey what's bothering him, but he decides against it. He's not in a fit state to deal with his _own_ problems, let alone even start to comprehend someone else's.

Instead he stays another hour at his brother's house, where they disregard the notion of coffee and stick with the brandy instead, start conversations they don't get around to finishing and attempt a game of cards neither can keep their minds on.

When Martina comes downstairs, bleary-eyed from an afternoon sleep, her hands clutched to her stomach and her eyebrows and mouth corners rising at the sight of him, Adrian indulges in another wimp-out and makes his excuses, leaving before she can so much as open her mouth to begin terrifying him.

When he gets home, the kids are already washed and changed and ready for bed. Adrian thanks the woman next door, kisses Jimmy, then Harris, then Davey, and then spends the rest of the evening painting, splattering dollops of paint on canvas and spreading them around until they morph into Carmens. He churns out three low-quality likenesses, really just blobs of pink crowned with yellow with impressively sultry eyes in the middle, and then burns the lot of them in the hope that he can somehow exorcise himself of every experience he ever had of her.

* * *

**Joey, dear Joey, you do so love to be the centre of attention, to the point that you insert yourself into other characters' chapters. Ah well. Also, Joey's advice is a bit, well...it's a difficult one to call, and Joey's not really in a state to be giving advice anyway, so there you go.**


	7. Joey III: A cloud of bubbles

**Again, I must reiterate that everyone is a bit muddled up at the moment, and no-one is acting logical. They will eventually see some sense, but it'll take quite a while of dithering and paranoia before they get there.**

**This chapter is also a bit...weird (actually this fic in its entirety is a bit weird, but I digress) but I've asked various people for their advice about this scenario and I hope it's okay.**

* * *

**Joey**

He's wasted nearly an entire day because of this. He'd had a _score _of things to organise, last-minute Christmas presents to get, other errands to run and he'd neglected the lot- not to mention giving Adrian perhaps the most underhanded, pathetic advice he's ever dished out, and still regrets- and all because he can't just man up an admit to Martina that he sent a card to Oscar. It's not even that much of a big deal, not something that should _warrant_ all this deception and sneaking around, but nonetheless, Joey has been panicking like he's never panicked before over it. And now, in some downright deplorable effort to convince himself that it's all right to have secrets from your wife, he's gone and lectured Adrian on the merits of not owning up to Irenee about his unfaithfulness.

Joey's stomach turns just thinking about it. What's come over him? When did he become _that_ kind of person? He's always striven to guide his siblings in the right direction, to be the moral compass his Dad never was and his Mam would have been, had she not also had a tendency to get too hysterical to properly direct. Granted, he's not quite sure _what_ he's supposed to say about cheating- the very word gives him pains after what happened with Roxy- but it's so unlike him to simply turn around and say _don't say anything_. He remembers urging Shifty to be honest with Martina, to make sure she _knew_ about all his misdeeds so she wouldn't be let down if she found out later, to make sure she knew _why_ he didn't want to move in with her that first time. He remembers urging eleven-year-old Billy to give back the expensive jacket he'd nicked off his friend as revenge for some childish prank. He remembers hundreds of such occasions. And yes, maybe he's told a few porkies in his time about money, but he's never pushed deceit as the best way to get off the hook- not to his family.

_You should have told her to tell Irenee…_ one part of his conscience chastises him, wrestling with the part that's screeching _and destroy your brother's marriage?_ Oh, he doesn't know. He doesn't know about this sort of thing at all. He doesn't know if what he said was right or wrong, given the circumstances, or whether he should have just told Adrian he couldn't interfere and left him to sort it out on his own.

_I'll keep a closer eye on him from now on_, Joey resolves, _I'll take better care of him. Next time Irenee goes away, I'll invite Adrian round so he can't get into that sort of mess again._

He swallows another brandy and shivers as it kicks in. He's got to put Adrian to one side for a moment- he'll come back to that later. At the moment he's got to sort himself out. Regardless of whether Martina's seen it, that card needs to be retrieved and posted. Christmas is speeding towards him, and he wants everyone in his life (or who has been in his life) to be happy. He'll get it back, and then he'll take Martina in his arms and hold her and apologise for being such a sneaky bastard, and hope she'll forgive him for hiding it when it wasn't worth hiding. And he'll stop creating problems where there needn't be any. That's what he'll do.

Martina has gone back upstairs to have a bath, and Joey takes this opportunity to scour their bedroom for the stack of Christmas cards. She's hidden them well, she assured him when she caught him looking through her handbag, somewhere he wouldn't be able to get them until she'd finished deciphering any secret Boswell plots hidden within them. Joey sits down on his side of the bed and tries to imagine himself as Martina, get inside her head and determine where she would think to stash something.

_Hmm. I am a manic-depressive, bad-tempered Social Security lady with hormones and a penchant for ruining my husband's schemes…_

He tries the drawer in her bedside table, then under her pillow, then under her side of the mattress, finding nothing each time, and comes to the conclusion that he's not very good at thinking like Martina after all. Ah, well. He's going to have to just eat a slice of humble pie and go and ask her for them. He's going to tell her about the Oscar one anyway- he hasn't got much more to lose.

Joey breathes in and out and walks slowly toward the bathroom.

He does a rhythmical knock.

'I'll be out in a minute!'

'Martina, I need to talk to you.' He knows it's not particularly good etiquette, but he pushes the door open anyway and sticks his head round it.

Martina is just a head among a cloud of bubbles. 'I said I'll be out in a minute!'

'Look, sweetheart, I-' the heartfelt admission he was aiming for dissolves on his tongue as he spies something rather odd.

'Good hidin' place, eh, sunshine?' Joey walks across to the vanity and snatches up the pile of envelopes from where they're lying in plain sight beside the sink.

'I knew you'd be snoopin' round the 'ouse- only thing for it was to keep 'em with me.' One of her arms emerges from the mountain of bubbles, her hand waving vaguely and floppily in his direction. 'You can put them back down now.'

'Find anything of interest in there?' Joey asks conversationally, unknowingly gripping the stack tighter as the words leave his mouth.

Martina gives him a look- one he knows well, but hasn't actually named. She usually dishes it out to customers who've failed to fool her.

'You tell _me_.'

He grimaces. She's seen it. He knows she's seen it. He looks back across at her and her large eyes stare back at him, wide in anticipation but with an odd sort of calm in her irises. Joey's not sure he likes the expression- there's a hint of danger in it.

'Er…' he flicks through the cards in an attempt to procrastinate, and, locating Oscar's one, slowly pulls it out, his stomach leaping as he notices something. It now sports a stamp, the perforated edges aligned perfectly with the corner of the envelope.

Martina notices his examination of it. 'You might want to get around ter postin' that.'

'I thought you said we 'adn't any more stamps,' he says, even though that's probably not the most important issue here. He's dawdling, he really is.

He can't really tell, because she's shrouded up to her neck in soap, but from the way all the bubbles move, Joey suspects Martina has just shrugged at him.

'I did find _one_ in the end…thought I should put it to better use before it ended up on one o' the cards in your Social Security scam.'

'Ah. Well, that's…' Joey turns the envelope around in his hands, '…nice…'

Martina's face doesn't change. 'Well?'

Joey has a few different ways of proceeding, a few admission statements lined up, but he's having trouble articulating them.

'I take it you know, then,' he says rather stupidly.

Martina flicks a small clump of foam away from her mouth. 'I _was_ 'opin' you'd come ter me and come clean about it.' He detects a flicker of hurt in her voice and runs straight across the room to her, kneeling beside the bath and reaching over to cup her face in his hand.

'Are you angry because I wrote a card to Oscar?'

Martina shuts her eyes, and when they open they're flashing.

'If I were _angry_,' she says slowly, 'it'd be because you felt the need ter _keep _it from me!'

'I just…' Joey moves to put his hands on her shoulders, but he can't, given they're immersed and he can't reach them, 'I didn't want to upset you, sweetheart- you've got enough on your mind right now with the baby and all, and…I didn't want you to think that I valued you and Belle less 'cause I was sendin' things to Oscar…'

He gets up and paces, messing up his hair and then smoothing it down again, starting more sentences to her and not finishing them.

'Oh, but you thought I'd feel more loved and valued bein' kept in the dark? Oh, yes, Joey, that makes sense, doesn't it? Makes sense ter stop someone from bein' upset by makin' 'em feel they're not even allowed ter know about somethin' so trivial, doesn't it?'

'I just thought…' Joey tries again.

'Look, I wouldn't have cared about you sendin' the card- I don't care if you want ter send a bloody _pony _to Oscar fer Christmas- as long as you _tell_ me about it, instead o' sneakin' around makin' it into somethin' shady!'

'Martina…' Joey comes and sits down on the tiles, reaching his arm towards her again and stroking her hair. The tips are damp from the water and the bubbles, the top still dry, and he rests his index finger and thumb around a lock at the point where the two states meet. She's still watching him with no small amount of contempt and pain, and Joey wonders just what he can say, what he can do. Seems he's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't. All he'd wanted was to make sure he could acknowledge everyone he loved, without hurting anybody, and all he's done is hurt Martina anyway.

'I _just thought_,' he says again, slowly and softly this time, 'if I let you know straight out, you might start feelin' insecure again. I mean, we've only just stopped you worryin' about 'avin' this baby, haven't we? And I didn't want to open up that avenue of worry that Belle might be a replacement- 'cause she's not, and she never will be, and…'

'I know, _I know_, you've said all that before,' she hushes him. 'We don't need to go into all that again, love. I know you miss Oscar. I've always understood that. I just…' she chews on her lip, 'I just want ter know I can _trust_ you, Joey. That's what's important ter me. That when you say things, you mean them- and I can't know that if you're gonna go off and start keepin' secrets, can I?'

'You _can_ know that,' Joey kisses the top of her head, 'and you _will_ know that. I'll make sure of it. When I tell you and Belle I love you, I'll always mean it, okay?' He kisses her again, and cracks a mildly mischievous smile. 'Have I escaped your wrath, then?'

Martina smirks his favourite smirk, her mouth thin and wry and twisted, her eyes downright wicked.

'If I wasn't warm and comfortable right now, I might be tempted to lynch yer for your pathetic attitude towards all this,' she says, putting a warm and clammy hand on his wrist, another on his shoulder, and pulling him in so his chest is pressed against the side of the bath, and able to feel the cold porcelain of the outside through his thin shirt. '_However_, seein' as I _am_ warm and comfortable, and not really in the mood to get up and inflict grievous harm upon you, I suppose I'll have ter let it slide just this once.'

She leans forward until her forehead is almost touching his, her smile blurry in her close proximity.

'But if I find out you've got any more secrets like that one, I might not be so lenient in future.'

Joey thinks of all his little financial schemes and grimaces. 'I've kept things from you before…'

'Oh, you mean your 'work'?' The DHSS-lady tone penetrates the layers of her voice, and, if she weren't his wife, and, in his eyes, rather adorable when cross, and, to boot, sitting in a bubble-bath rather than behind a counter, she could well be frightening. 'I meant _real_ secrets, Joey. Your little lucrative plots don't present much of a problem- I can find out about them so easily they're barely secrets at all. You might as well walk around wearin' a sign sayin' _I'm earnin' money and claimin' benefits.'_

'Makes a drastic change from when you used to liken me 'plots', as you call them, to a fire you couldn't find.'

'Ah, but I did find it, in the end. And it wasn't as difficult as I'd thought.'

'I'm yet to see you douse me with every legal hosepipe you can get your hands on- wasn't that your plan of action for once you'd found out what I was up to?'

Martina's head waggles from side to side in a mocking gesture. 'I'm just bidin' my time. The hosepipes are on their way. One day, when all your lit'le schemes have piled right up, I'll set all of 'em on you at once, and drench you. You'll never recover from it- that'll be the end of all your trickery.'

'Or perhaps,' Joey grins, 'your love for me overwhelms your desire to bring me down, and you can't bear to do it.'

Her eyes leave his, flickering down towards the water and then across the room, focussing on anything but him.

'Yeah,' she mutters, so that her admission is barely audible. 'Per'aps.'

And she tells _him_ off for his dramatics. Martina doesn't realise it, but she's just as over-the-top as he is sometimes, in her own way. Anyone would think she'd just been asked to admit something shameful, rather than that she loved her husband, which she has already stated and proven and proclaimed many times before. It's silly, but it makes Joey's heart swell with love for her nonetheless.

'Anyway,' he says, rising once more, his being immensely lighter now the cloud about his head has evaporated, now the whole ridiculous card business has _finally_ been put to rest, 'I'd better leave you in peace to enjoy your bath. I'm just gonna go down and call Mam about the Christmas arrangements, okay?'

He begins to make for the door.

'Joey?'

Joey pauses mid-step, turning his head back towards her.

'Come closer.' An almost naughty smile plays about her lips.

Joey obeys her command, leaning in in anticipation of a kiss, and Martina smushes a great wad of bubbles in his face.

* * *

**Just a footnote: Martina is not manic-depressive. In my headcanon she is dysthymic, but Joey doesn't know that. Neither does she, though. Also, this might have seemed rather quickly resolved, but Joey's problems are far from over, I assure you. Poor love. **

**And sorry about the weirdness of the whole bath thing. Apart from the fact I thought it was funny at the time, this is why it's not a good idea to write chapters under the influence of wine and stress.**

**Also, hypothetical chocolates if you can spot the rather shameless attempt to tie this in with EOTD.**


	8. Nellie III: Well, then

**Before I start, I'd better apologise for what happens here. Nellie's logic is completely messed up, and she won't be able to properly make up her mind. I'll attempt to excuse that by saying, well, she's pretty much having a mental breakdown/burnout here. She's gone over the threshold of what she can take and she cain't handle no more :P**

**Also, apologies _again_ for the kids. Every time I write a future fic, I pick a year and _somebody's_ child is six years old. It's getting beyond ridiculous.**

* * *

**Nellie**

'Hello, yes?'

'Hello, Mam, it's me.'

She normally loves to hear Joey's voice, but this evening it grates on Nellie. All she can hear is the hateful tone it took on when her eldest son broke her heart, even though she had been quite sure even a short while ago that she had forgiven and forgotten that. Derek's death has changed the way she thinks about everything. Every wound she's ever been given has been torn back open- Freddie leaving her for that TART, Billy getting Julie pregnant and destroying their reputation as an upright family, Aveline marrying a PRODDY VICAR, Joey's betrayal, and every single incident that fell in between these. Every scab has been torn back off. Without that little slice of happiness, all the little hurts the others in her life have caused seem magnified, a hundred- no, a thousand times worse. She's angry with them all right now, even though she doesn't want to be. Part of her knows this isn't right, that it's all over and done with and they're all back, but she hasn't been allowed to properly let out all her hurts, and now she's simply cooking with pain and fury and just about every negative emotion one can put a name to.

Nonetheless, she thinks she does a pretty passable 'cheerful' when answering him.

'Oh, hello, love!' she says, her face wooden as she cracks a smile, 'how are you?'

'Oh, fine, Mam, fine- just lettin' you know about the Christmas arrangements. We are stayin' the extra night after all.'

No _if that's all right with you_, no _please_, nothing. Just assuming she'll dish it out for him as if nothing else matters in her life.

A bit of her reminds herself that this assessment isn't exactly fair- she was the one who invited Joey in the first place- it's a long-standing arrangement, and she's never begrudged him a place round her table before. She normally looks forward to his visits, takes comfort in them, even. But right now, after…

'Oh,' she says, 'that's lovely, I, I, I mean that's good, Joey.' She switches the phone to the other ear, wanting to ring off, or better still, to just hang up and be in peace on her own once more, but at the same time longing desperately to stay on the phone with Joey forever, until the overwhelming love she's always had for her son wins out and she's back to her old self.

'How's, er, how's Martina, love?'

'Great, yeah, fantastic!' He seems incredibly happy about something- his voice has picked up with this last remark- and is that a hint of relief she can detect in it? He may be a grown man but Nellie's still his mother, and she can notice a million tiny things about Joey just from a few words. Perhaps they've just resolved a row, or they've had a scare of some sort.

'How's the baby?' is the next logical question.

'Great, yeah!' the cheer in his voice increases another leap and bound. 'Fantastic!'

_Oh, Joey. Can't you think of anything else to say?_

'We 'ad another scan a couple of days ago,' Joey goes on, much to her relief, as it means she now doesn't have to come up with another question, 'and An- er, the baby's doin' really well, yeah. Not long now!'

He's done that a couple of times, she's noticed- started to refer to his child as something beginning with A. It's as if he's already named it (_An…Andrew? Anthony? Andrea? Anne?)_ - she suspects, therefore, that he already knows what it's going to be. Nellie's unsure whether she approves of this- she doesn't hold with all these modern medical techniques. _If God had intended us all to know what sex our babies were before time,_ she thinks, _we'd have been born with windows in our stomachs._ She'd always liked the surprise, anyhow.

Even so, if Joey does know, he's certainly going to lengths to make sure nobody else does. That's him all over, Nellie reflects- sneaky and secretive. He never did tell her what he was doing for work- granted, she hadn't wanted to know, but when he was caught for his number-plate scheme, it was Freddie he accepted help from. When he started seeing Roxy again, it was Grandad he told first. When he was hurt or troubled, he always kept it to himself. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's being incontrovertibly Joey-ish about this, too. Why should he tell _her_ about his baby? she thinks bitterly. She's only his mother, after all.

'No,' she says, knowing she's failing to put in the necessary enthusiasm, 'not long now. Take care, then, love.'

'Oh…okay, then.' It's clear enough it had not been Joey's intention to ring off, that he's mildly taken aback by her abrupt shooing of him off the line, but he goes anyhow, with a happy _ciao_, _then_, _see you in a few days_.

'Ta-ra, love,' Nellie says into the empty receiver, and puts it back down.

Well, then. He's coming in a few days. By which time, she'll be on a train, the city dissolving into countryside and hills. Joey will be all right- he'll look after them all. He'll keep them all together when they realise their slave has disappeared- he'll stop Aveline and Adrian getting emotional, try and tell Freddie off if he tries to use that as an opportunity to sneak off back to the TART, and do his best to shut Billy's gob before her youngest starts suggesting all the gruesome things that might have happened to her and describes in detail the white slave trade, constantly citing 'something he's read somewhere.'

Ah, Joey. She can picture him raising his hands and hushing them all, calming them. She can picture him struggling to get some food together, organising everyone who's around into some sort of production line to make sure that everyone is taken care of, trying to make Christmas nice for them while their mother is missing.

_Ah, Joey_.

If only she could erase that incident from her mind, or at the very least, file it back away. She wants to ring him back and tell him all her upsets, and hear him say _calm down, Mam, you know we love you_, as he inevitably would. He'd probably even drive out right now to see her and tell her in person that her fears are unfounded, comfort her about Derek if she chose to tell him, help her with a few final preparations. Her hand hovers over the receiver.

And then she puts it down and goes upstairs instead.

* * *

'Another cup of coffee, my darling?' Derek smiles, his impish eyes alight.

Nellie smiles back at him, unable to stop herself.

'Please.'

Derek flags down the waitress, and Nellie holds her still-warm first cup to her lips, breathing in the steam that's still rising from it and cupping her hand around the porcelain as she sips, watching him in happy disbelief.

'You always take such good care of me.'

Derek reaches his hand across the table, taking hers and holding it tight.

'I always will.' (_Mam?)_

'When I'm with you…' Nellie begins, her heart fluttering as he squares his shoulders in hopeful anticipation of whatever she's going to say. (_Mam?)_

'I feel I…' (_Mam?)_ 'I…'

'_Mam?'_

Nellie blinks. Derek vanishes.

Aveline is eyeing her oddly, and it occurs to Nellie that for the past few minutes she's most likely been wearing the soppiest, most pathetic daydreaming face there ever was. She shakes her head and puts her cup down.

'Sorry, love. I was somewhere else for a moment there,' she laughs, and Aveline returns to her prattling at once.

'As I was sayin', Mam, the thing is, I don't know if Ursula and Nick _should_ be made to go to the midnight mass…'

'It's not a mass,' Nellie cuts in, the fierceness welling within her and springing to her voice without much encouragement. 'Haven't you learned the difference _yet,_ my girl? When a priest speaks at mass, the whole church lights up with the presence of the Holy Spirit. When Oswald speaks at one of those _pathetic services_, you feel like you've been left in the dark and the damp!'

'_Mam,_' Aveline coaxes, but Nellie keeps her lips pursed and she soon gives up. There's no use bothering to spoon feed her things about it being the same God and the same sort of service. She knows what she knows, and no Proddy, even if he _is_ her son-in-law, is going to worm his way in and convert her to the other side.

Aveline goes back to her original thread. 'Thing is, Mam, if Ursula's gonna grow up a model, stayin' up that late on Christmas Eve's gonna ruin 'er career! She's gonna wind up with bags under 'er eyes and deathly pale skin, and…'

'Aveline, she's not even seven yet! She's got years ahead of her to scrub herself and paint herself and pretty herself up if she wants to be a…' Nellie shudders slightly, '_model_.'

She's not at all pleased that Aveline's decided Tracey Ursula will follow in her footsteps. It's not the child's decision at all- she can tell from the girl's miserable sigh every time Aveline gets her into another breakfast commercial or photo shoot- and every time she spots her granddaughter in another children's sleepwear advert in a catalogue the thought that immediately springs to mind is not one of pride, but _poor little thing_. She'll end up rebelling, will that girl, and go in for science at university or an office clerk's job or something else along those lines, no doubt.

'And I don't think Nick's well enough to go to church at night,' Aveline continues. Here, at least, Nellie can agree with Aveline's line of reasoning. From the moment he was conceived, it seemed like things were going wrong with Nick- there had been two miscarriage false alarms, a whole host of complications surrounding the birth (she'd ended up with an emergency Caesarean, which, Nellie knows, was necessary, but it still makes her feel odd, all this cutting people open and sewing them up as you please. She never went through it with any of hers. Martina's considering one. She intends to talk her out of it.) And then the poor little thing had come out with asthma, a hole in his heart and the lowest immune system of anyone in their family. Nobody else on either Nellie or Freddie's side was born sickly- it must be that Oswald and his hoity-toity relatives who've bestowed it on the little boy.

And the thought of the dear little thing falling under the weather- and all for the sake of a _Proddy Christmas service_, no less, makes her feel mildly ill. She doesn't like to play favourites, but little Nick, whether she decided it on her own or not, has got to be her favourite grandchild by far. He's such an adorable little child- probably half the size of Adrian's Jimmy, though he was born six months before- with a lovely little smile and a wobbly walk on a bandy pair of legs, and a little ringing voice that reminds Nellie of a cross between Joey and Adrian at their cutest ages. Only a couple of weeks ago, when she'd gone round to visit, he'd clung to her leg and said, lisping through his teeth, _can you come back and see me soon, Nan?_

'Good gracious, no,' she says, in response to Aveline's statement. 'He could get pneumonia or worse!' She's not sure exactly what might happen to him, but that seems a fair guess. 'I'll tell you what, love, I'll come and see you in the evening, before the service, and I can take Nick back with me. You can come and pick him up on Christmas morning- and Ursula's more than welcome, too- then neither of 'em will 'ave to stay up late!'

What? _What?_ That lot has all just spilt off her tongue without warning, so easy to articulate and to mean. She'd love to have Aveline's children around her- it would be nice to have some childish excitement in her household again, and it'll save both them and her from having to endure Oswald's ghastly, Protestant idea of Christmas church. It'll help Aveline out- she still rues the day her only girl moved out of the family home to go and live in a cold, impersonal vicarage, and, though she was happy for Aveline and Oswald's marriage, secretly she rues the day Aveline and Oswald sorted things out and Aveline moved _back_ out of Kelsall Street into the vicarage. She misses having her daughter around. She misses being able to look after her the way she used to. And the idea that now, she can still do this warms her heart.

Wait a minute, though.

She's already rung up and confirmed her room at the hotel. She's already bought her train ticket. She'd been firm in the decision that she was going away for Christmas no matter what, and that nothing was going to sway her- that she needed the time on her own to revitalise her and prepare her for her remaining years of family life. And all of a sudden, she's been tethered here once again by her children, has offered her services, rent-a-Mam, for their convenience. Her sense of motherly duty is suddenly making her feel guilty for even thinking of walking out on her children.

But why shouldn't she walk out on them? They've all walked out on her at one point. They returned to the fold, of course they did- they can't really live without her, try as they might- and Aveline returned home multiple times after getting fed up with Oswald, Billy returned home after Connie got fed up with him, Joey returned home after Roxy got fed up with _him_, the others kept on dropping in. But why was that? Was it because Nellie was always there, because she provided free care and rent-free lodgings?

Or was it because, perhaps, deep down they were drawn to her, just _knowing_, the way she just _knows_ it, that despite how much pain they caused her, and despite how much she wants to make them sorry for that pain at times, she loves them more than anything? There's some sort of invisible thread- not the type Adrian always describes, weak and barely able to hold a person's sanity or manhood or whatever else up, but a strong one- between Nellie and all her brood, which wraps around the group of them and stretches, sometimes threatening to snap, but which never does. Joey likes to call it _unity_, but Nellie thinks it should have a new name, something that adequately describes its elasticity. They stretch away from each other, but this thread, this thread of love and of togetherness, keeps bringing them back to one another no matter how far they run. They'll always be a sort of unit, even if one of them went to the other side of the world.

And maybe they've sometimes wished it wasn't so. She _knows_ Joey has, at times. She's almost sure about Billy and Adrian. Probably the others, as well. Freddie has tried to _make_ it not so. But so has she, at times, on a park bench with Derek or in his car, longing for the freedom to up and go off with him and live the sort of romantic life she dreamed of as a girl but never found within her grasp. She's one of them, a part of them, in every way- and that includes the occasional resentment at the special bond they share. She's just doing exactly what the rest of them do- but when it comes down to it, as it does for all the others, family still wins out.

'Aw, hey, really?' Aveline is visibly excited about her suggestion, and Nellie doesn't really want to consider why. 'Aw, thanks, Mam! They'll love that- they really will!'

She stands up to lean right across their little table and kiss her, leaving, Nellie knows without having to look, a big lipsticky mark on her cheek. And as a smile comes to Nellie's face, she feels an odd tugging, as if her heart is smiling, too.

Well, then. She's staying for Christmas. She'll do it for her family, because she has to, and because, she supposes, love comes out on top when all's said and done. She loves them- Joey and Jack and Adrian and Billy, Aveline and little Ursula and Nick, and, even, she supposes, that Freddie Boswell, at times. And deep down, she doesn't want to miss out on seeing them all at Christmas.

But that doesn't mean she won't cry. It doesn't mean she won't allow herself to wallow in the disappointment of the situation, the fact that she won't get a bit of luxury for herself, after all. The two conflicting feelings- the love for all of them, and the misery that Derek isn't there, that she doesn't get a Christmas on her own, that she is, still, to some extent, being used, are slapping against each other, colliding and then bouncing apart like magnets forced together. Nellie doesn't know how she's supposed to reconcile the two, but she supposes this is what being a Boswell is- this is what all of them do, all the time. They can live with both. And so can she.

She can love her children and still mourn what she could have had. And what's more, she will. She'll still feel a bit down on Christmas Day, and a bit unappreciated, and a bit regretful, but she'll still light up at the happiness of her loved ones. She can be both the Boswells' mother and herself. She can do it.

Aveline is still gushing, but a fair bit of it's going over her head. She's still trying to process this train of thought. She understands it, and yet she doesn't. It makes sense, and it doesn't. She's happy with her spur-of-the-moment decision to stay, and she isn't.

'Come on, then, Mam,' Aveline gets up, and Nellie follows her to the counter in mild bewilderment, 'I wanna show you what I got for Ursula for Christmas! There's still one on display in the shop window- I want you to see how much it'll suit her!'

Clothes, then, judging by Aveline's description. _Poor little thing_, she thinks for the umpteenth time. _She should be allowed dolls and toys at her age- Aveline should let her be a child for a while_. She'll rectify that as much as she can, she decides, already planning out last-minute presents she can have ready for Aveline's children when they come round. She's still thinking about this as she watches her daughter click up to the café counter on her high-rise shoes, earning a wolf-whistle and an offer of having both their coffees on the house by the man behind the counter, who's too busy drooling over her legs in their coloured tights to be doing his job properly.

Nellie would go up and make a point of discussing Aveline's _husband_ in front of the young man, but as she does, the part of her brain that's been considering Ursula's present lights up with the memory of something else.

'Just wait a minute, love,' she says, catching Aveline by the arm as she's beginning to lead her out into the street. Now she's staying, there's something she wants to do, and she might as well do it while she's out.

There had been no point in giving her son a thoughtful gift if she wasn't here. She wouldn't have been able to see if he liked it. But she _is_ staying now.

'What's the matter?' Aveline asks, suddenly concerned, and Nellie shakes her head, grimacing and disguising it as a smile.

'Oh, nothing, love, really!' She squares her shoulders, knowing she's making a bigger deal out of it than the whole thing requires, but knowing that, once she's said it, she'll be confirming to herself that she's staying, that she's putting the family above herself.

'I just want to dash and get a new Walkman for our Billy.'

* * *

**Yeah, sorry about the logic being so utterly messed up. Nellie is a mixed-up and lost woman at the moment, so she will have some ambivalent thoughts. Loss and stress do that to you.**

** It's a disappointment that she's not going, but believe me, Nellie's disappointed too (and who's to say she might not get to go. anyway..? You'll have to see. :P) Everything will make more sense at the end of this fic...I hope XD The way I've been writing it, it's supposed to, anyway :P We'll see how it turns out.**


	9. Adrian III: The Enigma of Carmen

**So, in the last couple of weeks I have finally gotten around to properly going through Series 7 (I haven't done _too_ many things wrong with ATEOTD_, _ for which I'm thankful), and you know what? I really love Connie (and Nellie's attitude towards her). After Christmas I intend to publish a Billy/Connie fic, with perhaps a small appearance from Martina, seeing as they met in the DSS.  
**

**Anyhow, this is the last of what shall be known as The Short Chapters. The next three chapters (the final three) shall follow a different format, will be a _lot_ longer, will switch point of view and will cover the entirety of the 23rd, 24th and 25th of December.**

* * *

**Adrian**

She still works in the same shop as she did nine years ago. She's been promoted, of course, to manager or store supervisor or something, and she now wears a smart jacket with a name badge and doesn't come out of the back offices unless there's a problem or a customer inquiry. Even so, Adrian would rather not be within fifty feet of Carmen, and so he's avoided that shop like the most virulent of all strains of the plague. There's nothing he can buy there he can't get somewhere else, after all, and though Carmen had (seemingly, anyway) lost interest in him, turning her amorous attentions on Jack for a time and then giving up, he still hadn't really wanted to risk any repercussions of the time they'd spent together.

But now he finds himself treading that familiar path up to the door of the shop as if nothing has changed- except for the fact that he's a little older, has a few more lines around the eyes and carries a couple more pounds, and is now a reasonably successful writer. The important things haven't changed- Adrian is still a wimp, is still making the wrong decisions in life, is still terrified of, and under the thumb of, Carmen.

The little bell above the door jangles- the same old sound, and Adrian wonders how it can have lasted this long without being replaced- and he steps into the shop. It's been extensively renovated and modernised since he was here last, but the musty atmosphere lingers, and he can still remember running in here with Carmen when it was closed and all the customers had gone home, the two of them giggling like children (though internally he was shaking like a leaf with nerves), Carmen smothering him with lipsticked kisses and then pulling him into the back room.

'Can I 'elp yer?' A round-faced, cheery girl, somewhat reminiscent of a Swiss milkmaid, grins at him from over the counter. Adrian vaguely recognises her- an old girlfriend of Billy's, perhaps? His younger brother went through quite a few in rather a short period, when he was going through his _desperately-getting-over-Julie-and-Connie_ phase, but all the faces and names have somewhat blurred together in Adrian's memory. They never really lasted long enough to leave an imprint in his mind.

'Um,' he buttons and unbuttons his jacket as he speaks, trying to keep his nerves at bay, 'is, er, is the manager there?'

'D'you 'ave a complaint, then?' the smile visibly diminishes on the shop attendant's face.

'Oh, no,' Adrian amends hastily, raising one hand and clutching his briefcase as tightly as he can with the other, seeking comfort in the mock-leather box like a child would a security blanket. 'I just, er, I just wanted a word with her. She's a...she's an old friend of mine, you see.'

'Oh,' says the girl. 'Right.'

She turns around, cups her hands around her mouth and hollers into the back room.

'CARMEN! SOME PONCE WITH A SUITCASE WANTS TER SEE YOU! MAYBE 'E WANTS YOU TO RUN AWAY WITH 'IM!'

'It's a _briefcase_, actually,' Adrian says defensively, hugging the aforementioned briefcase to his chest, 'and I don't want to do any runnin' away, thank you very…'

The word _much _sticks in his throat as Carmen emerges, looking a little smarter in her posher work clothes, a little less of the girlishness to her face, but still as _Carmen_ as ever.

'It's all right, Abigail,' Carmen says, looking at Adrian with an expression he doesn't recognise, 'I'll take over 'ere. Go and sort out the stock.'

The girl disappears before either of them speak again. Carmen cocks her head to one side and gives a strange, unpleasant smile.

'What are you doin' here?'

It's as if the 'mute' button has been pushed- Adrian moves his mouth, but no words accompany the action.

Carmen folds her arms, bemused at his pathetic fear.

'If you've come here because you wanna try again, you can forget it, Adrian. You're rubbish, you are.'

The comment sears through him, burning away every last vestige of the confidence that had spurred him to set out on this mission, but somehow, Adrian manages to swallow down his mangled squeak of despair and get a sentence out.

'I need to talk to you, Carmen.'

She looks from right to left, at the empty space around them, and shrugs.

'Okay.'

'Somewhere other than here.' He's absolutely dreading this last part of the request, and the connotations it might give rise to. 'Somewhere private.'

'Like I said, Adrian,' Carmen says, 'forget it.'

'No, not for _that_, Carmen!' he stamps his foot on the floor in frustration, momentarily forgetting that he's supposed to be terrified and immensely guilty to boot. He wants this over with once and for all. He wants to demand why Carmen even came round in the first place, and why she felt at liberty to casually ruin his marriage and his life, why she felt that seducing Adrian when his wife was her friend- _her friend!-_ was in any way all right. He wants to get to the bottom of this odd entity known as Carmen, and put a stop to her.

'I want to have a _serious_ talk with you! About…' he wonders how he can phrase it, 'about Irenee.'

Carmen looks about as confused as he was expecting. 'Irenee?'

'Yeah. You know,' he summons up a bit more courage, and actually succeeds at a basic form of sarcasm, 'your _friend?_'

Carmen looks around again, even though she's already established that the shop is empty, and then repeats her shrug.

'Okay.'

Having gotten the desired result, Adrian now feels the doom return to him.

Oh, he won't even be hanging by a thread by the end of this conversation, he can tell. No thread will be able to hold him.

* * *

He can't think of anywhere to go, and so they end up in the park, which Adrian takes immediately as being a bad sign. In his peripheral vision are the rhododendron bushes where they…no, he's got business to attend to. No fretting over that. He turns to Carmen, who's inspecting her nail polish.

'Carmen,' he begins.

'Oh, it's no use, Adrian,' she butts in, dropping her hand to hit him with the full force of her haunting eyes, 'I know what you're gonna say- that it was wrong and Irenee will feel betrayed by both of us and your masculinity has been destroyed and we're both terrible people.'

Adrian can do nothing but nod, because she's just summed it up. She might have used stronger words than he was planning to, but that is basically it.

'I just can't believe that you even considered…' he puts a fist to his forehead, tugging at a curl of his hair, 'I mean…doesn't she mean anything to you? Doesn't the fact that we weren't compatible- that I was never good enough for you- matter anymore? Did you just get up one morning and think, _oh, I think I might go and ruin someone's marriage today_?'

'It wasn't _like_ that, Adrian,' Carmen says. The breeze hits her and messes up her neat hairdo, and she reaches up to adjust it. 'It just _happened_.'

'Well it seems to _me_ like you _planned_ it, Carmen. Always turning up at our house- I bet you were just waiting 'til Irenee had gone out, so you could get me alone, and…'

'It was Irenee I wanted to see, if you _must_ know,' she snaps.

Adrian's planned retorts die on his tongue. He'd been planning for some sort of typical Carmen-response, some sort of changing the subject manoeuvre or a demeaning retort, but not that. He had been trying to psyche himself up for the usual sorts of responses, for the things he'd been anticipating. He'd been prepared for damaging remarks or attempts to seduce him. Her actual response takes him off guard.

He scrutinises Carmen, and to his surprise, something subtle comes over her face. All at once she looks small, hurt, even. Her vulture-like nature seems diminished somewhat, and for a moment, even though she hasn't physically changed, he almost doesn't recognise her.

'W-what d'you mean?' he stutters after several seconds of bewildered silence.

'Well, she is me friend, isn't she?' Carmen says aggressively. 'I am _entitled_, you know!'

'What did you want to see her for?' He sits down heavily on the park bench, unaware that this puts him in closer proximity to her. He's been taken completely and totally off-guard.

Carmen looks him up and down, visibly debating whether to say any more on the subject. 'It's none o' your business.'

'It _is_ my business!' Adrian fists his hair again. 'When you drag me into whatever it is, _steal_ my body and _sabotage_ my marriage…'

'You always were dramatic, weren't you?'

'…then _yes_, Carmen, I think it has _become_ my business, don't you?'

He's angry now. Adrian normally only gets angry with Billy, but he can feel the same sort of rage coursing through his veins now.

A bit more of a silence, and the vulnerable look returns to Carmen's face.

'I've been upset lately,' she says, in a voice entirely not her own, 'Irenee's been a good friend to me- always 'as. I wanted to talk to her about it. That's why I was always over there.'

'B-but…' Adrian begins, the rage suddenly dissolving as quickly as it had built up, and being replaced with utter confusion, 'but I…I don't…'

'I'd been seein' this feller, you see,' she says, not looking at him, 'quite attractive, you know…more well-built than you are…no offence,' Carmen adds, glancing briefly in the direction of his chest.

'None taken,' Adrian mutters, though he doubts the truth of his own words. He can feel his masculinity shuddering in its notch again.

'And, well…he seemed so nice when I met him. Really friendly-like, and it was always wonderful, every time- he knew what he was doin', you see…'

Adrian had come to sort things out, and to assert his own strength of character, and yet instead he's sitting being subjected to all the little personal digs he'd rather avoid. He shudders, trying not to feel like a pathetic, useless specimen of manhood. He can't say anything, though, because Carmen hasn't finished.

'And then he turned nasty…' her voice cracks, and Adrian honestly doesn't know what to think. Carmen, he has learned, is an expert at playing for sympathy, for wheedling and coercing people into doing whatever she wants. But she doesn't sound the way she normally did when trying this on- she'd once sat there eating carrot-tops and trying to push her stomach out, pretending she was pregnant, and when he'd seen through that, she'd turned on the tears in an attempt to get him to feel sorry for her. He hadn't fallen for it, of course, but he'd learned from then on to take everything she said with a pinch of salt, to be cautious.

'I don't wanna go into all that,' Carmen says, still looking away from him, 'but 'e did leave me in the end.' She swallows and turns sideways-on to him, watching him through one eye and clearly waiting for some sort of reply.

'So you got chucked and you were upset…that happens to loads of people. It happened to our Joey. It happened to our Mam, it happened to our Billy….well, maybe he's not the best example of model behaviour in that sort o' situation. But the point is, that happens, and people get over it- why that means that you had to take it out on-'

'I didn't _take it out_ on anyone!' Carmen hisses. 'I was upset. Irenee's a friend. I wanted to confide in someone. I went to see her a few times. No harm in any of that, is there? And before you start goin' on, when I went over that day, I'd had a terrible time of it. The feller had been hollerin' curses down the phone for an hour, and I needed Irenee right then. And…well, the door was on the latch, and she'd always said if it was I could come in, so I did. 'ow was I supposed to know she wasn't gonna be there?'

Adrian gulps but doesn't dare speak. He's oddly riveted by Carmen's tale, even though it's not all that gripping, really, even though he's still not sure whether he does (or wants to) believe it.

'I was in the 'ouse for about five minutes on me own- just devastated, you see, Adrian, 'cause I didn't know what I was supposed to do with meself. I'd been countin' on her bein' there. It was the only plan I had. And there I was, sinkin' in me own despair, when you walked in. And you, Adrian, well…'

She nudges his leg with her foot. Adrian would move it away, but all the feeling drains from it instantly.

She moves around on the bench to face him full-on now, and he sees that her eyes- the eyes that had seemed to mock him from his paintings, the eyes that had been his demons over the past few days- are swimming with tears.

'I remembered how you were always nice. You may not have been very good at it, Adrian, but you were always considerate, and… and kind. Apart from when you just walked away from me, of course,' she shrugs, and goes back to her original thread. 'And I just needed to reach out to _some_ form of kindness. I needed to forget somehow. I needed _something_. So I got it in the only way I know how.'

Adrian is stunned. He doesn't know what to say. It all makes so much sense- he could almost find himself feeling sorry for her, but his worries about Irenee still override that. He considers reprimanding her. He considers taking pity on her. He does neither in the end, and instead listens as she starts to speak again.

'I know I used you. But I was _desperate_, Adrian. I didn't know what to do.'

Carmen sighs heavily, a sure sign that she's done now, that she's got no more to say. And Adrian's head just swims and spins and swims, trying to sift through all of it.

'You know your problem, Carmen? You're too obsessed with the physical. You've never really learned to make any other sorts of human connections, have you? Perhaps if you'd just _talked_ to me, I could have given you some comfort…or sympathy, or advice, or something,' Adrian amends hastily, before she takes his definition of 'comfort' the wrong way. 'Didn't that occur to you at all?'

'You don't 'ave to get up on your high horse, Adrian,' she pouts. 'You don't think those sorts o' things occur to me? I've always got by on physical relationships- on solvin' all me problems by just _doin' it_.' Her voice takes on a familiar husky tone as she utters those two words, and then drops back into its miserable melody once more.

'It's only now I'm older I'm beginnin' to realise that can't be everything. I'm in me thirties now, and not a single one of me relationships has lasted. They all walk away in the end, just like you did. They all want more than that. I'm watchin' all me friends gettin' married, 'cause their partnerships have more substance, and some days I feel I should try and change meself, start lookin' for somethin' more lastin' too, you know.'

She exhales again. 'Only problem is, I've been this way so long. It's the only thing I know. I don't think I know _how_ to change.'

She touches his arm, but, for perhaps the first time since he realised just how sex-mad she was, fairly early on in their relationship, Adrian doesn't feel any sense of worry or anticipation connected with the gesture.

'I'm so lonely, Adrian.'

And Adrian is moved with pity by that simple statement. He's always been a bit of a softy where innocent little things are concerned- it's a trait that runs in the family, and though he doesn't go rescuing pigeons off the road like Billy, or trying to save the life of every dog in the dogs' home and bringing home pigs to save them from slaughter like Joey, or stealing animals from vet surgeries to protect them as Aveline did for a time, he does still feel inherently moved by suffering.

And Carmen, though he realises she's brought her current misery on herself, is suffering for her actions all these years.

He looks at her now, and, for some reason, because of those few last statements of hers, she's no longer terrifying, just forlorn and wretched and in need of sympathy.

'Carmen,' he says slowly, 'you don't have to be alone. Like you said, relationships are about more than just the physical side of things, and…' he shudders slightly, '_doing_…it. There are other _kinds_ of relationships, you know.' His anxiety now gone, he has no qualms about placing one of his hands on top of hers. 'Friendship. There's friendship. You're Irenee's friend. You can be mine, if you like. You have support, Carmen.'

Carmen looks at him for a moment like he's out of his mind, as if she can't quite believe he's offering the hand of friendship to her. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, flicks her hair back with her free hand, and then a tentative smile creeps onto her face.

'You mean that, Adrian?'

He mightn't have been sure what he thought about Carmen when entering into this conversation, but he's sure now, and all of a sudden, his entire mission has changed. Oh, it isn't as though he's banished that hideous feeling of guilt over cheating on Irenee- that will always be there, he thinks, and he'll be forever doing all he can to make it up to her, to be the most blameless husband there was- but where the other guilty party is concerned, well, everything's changed. What happened can't be undone, but it could have been prevented, had Carmen felt more secure.

He opens his mouth again, and an idea, fully formed within the blink of an eye, tumbles out without so much as a glance backwards.

'Come and spend Christmas with us. You can be around friends, Carmen- I'm sure Irenee would love to have you, and you can meet my children…'

Mentally, Adrian's hand flies to his mouth. What has he just said? This is Carmen- _Carmen_, whom Billy once named, alongside Magdelana, as _Man-Eater of the Year_, who was once the reason for all his personal problems. And yet once the words are out there, he has no intention of retracting them. Some strange force is at work here. He came here to tell Carmen to stay away forever, and now he's inviting her back into his life- into _their_ lives; his and Irenee's_._ In a short moment, years' worth of memories and everything he thought he knew about her have all changed before his very eyes.

It's odd, to say the very least, but for some reason, entirely contrary to his usual, panicked nature, he's not worried about it.

And when Carmen accepts, he finds himself smiling.

* * *

**Yes, I know this was odd, and progressed rather quickly and suddenly. The whole thing with Carmen might seem a bit weird, but I wanted to make there be a bit more to Carmen than just being obsessed with one thing, and make her a bit more human. It doesn't excuse what she did, but I wanted to give Carmen a better reason for seducing Adrian, give her a bit more depth, you know. **

**Anyway, this is the last chapter before the long ones, and we'll be hurtling toward Christmas day soon enough.**


	10. December 23

**Okay, we're on the home stretch now. These last three chapters will follow a different format- they're longer, cover entire days and will switch POVs. I will be posting this one now, one on either the 13th or 14th, and the final chapter on the 21st or 22nd, after I come back from holiday, and so it'll be closer to Christmas. Enjoy.**

* * *

**December 23****rd**

**Joey**

He's got an appointment with his solicitor at two, and that's enough to churn Joey up inside, even if it _is_ just to ask him to send Oscar's card on. Despite the bat-sized butterflies in his stomach, though, with the unnecessary drama of the card and all the preparations behind him, he's been having quite a pleasant morning, strolling up and down the streets with Martina and looking at the Christmas decorations in the shop windows.

Martina's in a particularly good mood- she may have a general dislike for all things decorative and unnecessary, but after several weeks of no work and nothing to do, she's thrilled to be out of the house, and has even come close to being enthusiastic at times.

They come to the front of a department store, and Joey's eyes are filled with shining baubles and tinsel, which blind him for a moment to his anxiety. An enormous Christmas tree stands in one window, and, though it's fake, and Joey despises fake ones, the colourful ensemble adoring its branches is really quite impressive. He pauses to admire, and to consider how he could appropriate the look to suit his own colour scheme.

Martina slips a gloved hand into his.

'We could get one like that next year.'

'What, a plastic tree?'

'Well, it'd save us 'avin' ter buy a new one every year, wouldn't it?'

'But _Martina_,' Joey protests, looking at the Christmas tree again and wincing. The decorations may be all right as far as they go, but the tree in itself… 'it's ugly! I don't care what they say, that is not a _realistic_ tree- it _looks_ plastic even from here!'

'It's realistic _enough_,' Martina says. 'And it'd stop you draggin' pine needles through the 'ole 'ouse. Plastic trees don't _shed._'

Joey reaches around to take her other hand, turning her to face him.

'Sweetheart, the _real thing!_ We Boswells always go for the _real thing_- we learned the hard way that imitations are rubbish!'

'Hence why you insist on wearin' real leather despite your _belief in the sanctity of all animal life_,' Martina quotes, shaking her head. 'Look, I just don't like the idea of wastin' money every December on somethin' that won't last. If we get a plastic one and keep it forever, it saves money, it saves effort…'

'It takes away half the fun…'

'This from the man who complained for three days about havin' a hernia after bringin' the tree home this year….'

'Well, next year you won't be carryin' a baby round in there, will you?' Joey releases one of his hands to lightly pat her stomach. 'You'll be able to help me haul it in!'

'No, thank you.'

Joey tuts five times in succession. 'You've got no style, you.'

'I'm sorry, luv, but I don't see anythin' stylish about cuttin' a tree down and then 'avin' ter carry it fer miles and _then_ 'avin' ter find a pot to stick it in, and in the meantime makin' a mess o' the living room, and _then _'avin' ter find a way to dispose of it afterwards. You get a plastic one in pieces, you assemble it, you un-assemble it and pack it away at the end of the season and that's that. It's practical.'

'You and all things _practical_,' Joey kisses her lightly. 'The love that dare not speak its name. Come on, no more of these atrocities,' he gestures in the direction of the tree. 'Next window!'

'Eh- that's my line,' Martina smirks. 'I say _next_, not you.'

'We're not in the DHSS anymore, sweetheart,' Joey says. 'We're not in the DHSS anymore.'

She laughs and elbows him as they move on. Martina continues to peruse the most untasteful of decorations on display, making remarks about how useful they'd be (which, quite frankly, make Joey's ears hurt) and he's drifted a bit further down to look at the more choice items when something catches his eye.

_Oh, that's just brilliant_. An evil plan springs immediately to his mind, and he has to clear his throat and put a hand over his mouth for fear his smirk will give the game away.

'Martina!' He calls. 'I just want to duck in there for a minute!'

'Why?'

'I, er, I just realised there was somethin' important I forgot to get,' he lies, and runs into the store without waiting for her response.

Once inside, he makes a beeline for the right department, gets hold of the item he'd seen and tests it out again and again, delighting in it and what a fine joke it will be on Martina. She'll be furious, he knows she will. But it'll be the sort of furious that won't land him in any permanent sort of hot water, and he begins to snicker at the mere thought of her response.

'Excuse me, sir?'

Joey nearly chokes on his own breath trying to keep his laughter down and his face straight. The shop assistant is giving him a bit of a wide berth, as would befit a nutcase, and Joey tries once more to tone down his facial expression.

'Ah. Greetings.'

'Are you planning to buy that?'

'Oh, yes,' Joey says, clicking his tongue. 'I'm gonna buy it, all right, son. I'm gonna buy it.'

He grins, with the result that the shop assistant steps backwards and wrinkles his nose.

'Okay, then,' he makes to retreat, but Joey holds out a hand.

'Hold on there, a minute, son,' he smiles again, holding out the item. 'If you've got a moment, I'd like this wrapped.'

* * *

**Nellie**

She's laden down with last-minute groceries when the familiar voice cuts through the air.

'Need a bit of 'elp with that, there, sweetheart? You're strainin' red as the face of…'

'I don't need your colour-chart comparisons, thank you, Freddie Boswell!' she snaps. Nellie ignores her husband's attempt to take one of the grocery bags from her, freeing her finger and thumb to precariously twist the key in the lock, and shoving the door open with her shoulder.

Freddie watches her and snorts.

'Always were a strong-willed, spirited thing, weren't you, Nellie Boswell?'

Not really, Nellie thinks. She's a pushover. She's giving everything she's got to the people around her, giving up all her time to run around after Aveline and her children and Billy and Joey and Martina and…

She doesn't mention any of that, though.

'I have to be strong, Freddie Boswell,' she replies, dumping all the shopping inside and turning around to slam the door in his face, 'what else can I be when I have to take control of a family for over a decade, because the man of the house goes off with a TART?'

Freddie's moustache trembles- a sure sign he's trying not to shout something back at her- but then it droops back into its normal walrussy state and he snorts again.

'Saved me a place 'round your Christmas table, have you?'

'That depends,' says Nellie through her teeth. 'Will you be _passing by_, Freddie Boswell?'

'I might just be, sweetheart,' Freddie winks. 'I might just be.'

And he strides off, whistling and leaving her bristling with fury. Who does he think he is? Ungrateful her children may be sometimes, but they at least make definite plans. They don't leave her hanging and assume her whole life is shaped around wondering about and hoping for their return.

She doesn't know where her husband is living at the moment, nor where the TART is (though she suspects they're together- why wouldn't she after she's got years of evidence in favour of that argument to back her up?) nor where Freddie disappears to for months at a stretch, as he has been inclined to do over the last couple of years or so. He appeared out of the blue for Joey's wedding, and then melted back into the mists again, repeated the process when Adrian's children and Aveline's Nick were Christened, and has turned up at the house twice in the last six months just to partake of some decent cooking, but there's no indication of when he'll next feel like popping in. He seems to like keeping her on her toes, making sure she isn't allowed to forget him or get on with her own life, but isn't allowed to assume he'll stick around, either. He's always been like that. Inconsiderate bastard.

Derek would never have done that.

She feels herself wanting to cry and puts her hand over her eyes. She's in the middle of the street- she should go into the house at the very least, but she can't move for a minute or two.

'Oi! You! Oi, you!'

Nellie slowly lowers her hand and turns in the direction of Grandad's door.

'Your morning tea's comin', love, don't you worry.' The addition of another small meal to Grandad's repertoire had been intended to cheer him up a bit and stop complaining, but Grandad has now become even more pernickety than ever, demanding his elevensies before she's even cleared away the dishes from breakfast some days. Oh, well. She'd better get to it.

She pulls herself together as hastily as she can and walks into the house with her head held high.

The groceries are still waiting to be put away, and Grandad's tray needs to be laid and delivered, but Nellie puts both chores off, walking up the stairs for no reason other than that she needs to breathe, needs to think, needs to be alone in her room.

Except it's a little hard to be alone in her room when there's someone else in there.

Billy is currently half-inside her wardrobe, flinging her clothes left, right and centre as he rummages around quite noisily. She would be shocked, but he's been doing the same thing since he was four years old- snooping around for his Christmas presents in the hope that one of his family members might relent and just let him have them early, now that he's seen them. He should have grown out of it by now, but Joey didn't half spoil him when he was younger, always relenting or buying him little extra things before the actual day, so he never quite learned the meaning of being patient and waiting.

'Oh, er, Mam!' He's noticed her now, hastily pulling his head and half his body out of the wardrobe and clutching a frilly dress to his chest (before realising that it looks like he's holding it up as though to try it on, and he hastily flings it to the floor.) 'I didn't see you there, er…I was just tidyin' up your wardrobe. Such a mess in there.' He waggles a finger at it. 'You deserve to 'ave it all neatened up.'

Nellie honestly can't be bothered to reprimand him. She's tired, she's confused about what she's doing and what she might have done, and she's all but given up trying to correct Billy's Billyishness for the time being. Besides, she thinks, almost smirking but not quite, he's not going to find the Walkman she bought. It's hidden in the one place he'd never look- the boot of his own car. (Billy's pathetic excuse for a VW finally bit the dust just under a year ago, and, despite being given a bit of financial assistance from each of his brothers to go toward a better one- not to mention an extra Social Security cheque from Martina, who she's sure bent the DSS rules to stop him whining about it- he still managed to come home with another piece of scrap. This latest one doesn't fall to bits, but all the doors stick, and Billy can't get the hang of pushing the button in while lifting the boot, despite everyone else showing him how to do it. Rather than listening to people, in typical Billy fashion he simply refuses to use it, hence why Nellie can safely hide things in there.)

She just stares at Billy for a few long moments, while he goes around gathering up her dresses and putting them back, rambling on about it somehow being her wardrobe's fault her clothes are all wrinkled and not the fact he just threw them around.

'Billy, just leave it, love.'

'It's a disgrace, Mam, this. A disgrace. I'll clean it up for ya, no sweat. Oh, and while I'm at it,' his face has come over all hopeful; Nellie suspects she knows what's coming next, 'are there any more places in your room you want me to tidy up for you?'

_It's a nice try, Billy, but that won't get you any closer to finding your present._

'Billy,' she says again, watching as his face lights up further before the inevitable fall, 'go and take Grandad his morning tea, love.'

When he goes downstairs, she sits on her bed, gathering a few dresses close to her, and smiles in a way she hasn't smiled in weeks. She often forgets the little things, she thinks, the little traditions which could so easily be rendered obnoxious but are as much part of their family life as the joyous moments. Billy's annual snoop is one of those things. It may not be particularly pleasant, but it's part of their life- of _her_ life- and she wouldn't miss it for anything.

She keeps on smiling until the dog comes sniffing its way in, and, for some reason, the smile fades from her face again.

* * *

**Adrian**

'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and all through the house…'

'What's _'twas_?' Davey furrows his little brow and wriggles about in Adrian's lap, shaking his foot until one of his slippers comes off and gets lost among the blankets.

'It's just short for 'it was',' Adrian attempts to explain. He kisses the top of Davey's curls, and, somehow managing to balance both his youngest and the book on his knee, reaches out his arms and pulls Jimmy and Harris closer.

'When all through the house,' he continues, 'not a creature was stirring, not even-'

'Creatures don't cook at night!'

Adrian turns to frown at Jimmy. 'What d'you mean?'

'Stirring is for cooking,' Jimmy clarifies. 'You don't cook at night!' He snatches the book and scrutinises it, but as he hasn't yet started school and can't read, he can't make head or tail of the writing.

'This book is silly!' Another toddler might toss it across the room, but that's never been Jimmy's style (Harris, perhaps- there's a touch of the Billy in Harris that Adrian hopes to eradicate before it becomes permanent- but Jimmy takes after his father in rather a lot of ways.)

'Stirring, in this case, just means awake. No-one was awake, that's all. Anyway,' Adrian says, flicking back to the right page and clearing his throat. 'Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…'

'I don't like mice,' says Harris, and Adrian wonders if he'll ever get past the first page of this book. It had seemed like a nice idea at the time- bringing the kids into his bed in the morning and reading them a lovely Christmas story. He remembers the days when he was little, and they all used to clamber on Joey, shaking and jumping on him until he woke and entertained them. He'd grumble and swat at them, but he always obliged them, letting the whole lot of them commandeer his bed and thinking up some outlandish tale of Freddie Boswell's travels to cheer them up while their parents' rows raged downstairs. It had never failed to make little Adrian happy, and so what better way, he'd thought, to cheer up his children while they were missing Irenee than to spend similar quality time with them?

It's not working quite as well as he'd planned, though. It was nine o'clock when he'd brought them in. It's now eleven, they've barely started on the book, the kids have messed around, and he's broken up several impromptu pillow fights. He's about ready to throw in the towel and tell them to get up and get dressed, only he's not sure what he'll do once they're all up. His Mam's coming round later, having bailed out of Christmas Eve to look after Aveline's children, and in the meantime he needs to call Irenee and tell her about having invited Carmen over (without somehow blurting the reasons that led to that decision.) He also needs to get a move-on with his painting, seeing as she's coming home tomorrow, and by then it needs to be dry, wrapped and stashed somewhere safe from prying eyes and little feet. He's painted right over the eyes, so his wife's likeness now looks slightly odd, smooth and blank and awaiting his brush to turn her into the woman he loves.

Now that everything is different between him and Carmen, he wonders if it will stop looking like her now. He feels odd inside- not absolved, not relieved, even, just strangely different about the whole situation, as though he's floating above all his worries. He can't put a name to this…whatever it is- he's not even sure he could write a poem about it, and that's saying _something_.

Hmm. All these complicated thoughts swimming round his head are making reading _The Night Before Christmas_ to his squirming children look more attractive by the minute. Adrian looks from one to the other, ruffles Harris's hair lightly and turns the page.

'_The stockings were hung by the chimney with care…'_

* * *

**Joey**

Martina is tapping her foot and looking at her watch when he emerges from the shop.

'What took you so long?' she demands. Joey is already laughing internally at what's about to transpire.

'I have an early Christmas present for you,' he announces triumphantly, and pulls the little package from his pocket.

'Oh, really?' Martina's eyebrow immediately goes up. She can tell it's some sort of joke, and Joey's glad sometimes that she can see through him so easily. If she'd thought this was a real present, she may have been disappointed.

'Go on, then,' he presses the package into her hand. 'Open it!'

Her eyes go thin. 'I don't like the way you're so eager fer me to unwrap this,' she says, eyeing it and then him with the utmost suspicion. 'What've you put in 'ere? There's not somethin' dangerous in this package, is there?'

He shakes his head. 'Now, _would I do that?_'

'I don't know. Yes.'

'Do you really think Lewis's would sell 'dangerous' objects?'

'Oh, all right,' Martina says, sufficiently convinced. She rips the tape off the paper, opens up the end and pulls out the contents.

'Is that…what I think it is?'

She casts the wrapping aside, letting it blow away in the breeze, and he'd tease her about littering but he's too busy awaiting the fruition of his plan.

Martina holds it up, the slim gold item glinting in the morning light, and for a few priceless seconds it seems she can't believe her own eyes.

'Oh, no,' she says. Joey chuckles.

'Oh, no.' Martina repeats, her free hand flying to her forehead. 'Not _another_ musical pen! 'ow many o' these things do I 'ave to break before you get it into yer thick skull that I 'ate them?'

'Ah,' Joey says, raising one finger. 'But you'll like this one! It's a _festive_ musical pen!'

She shuts her eyes, taking a slow, deep breath in an attempt to chase away her irritation.

'A…_festive_...pen?'

Joey smirks, a triumphant, mischievous twinkle in his eyes, takes the pen from her and clicks it, inwardly triumphing as _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ wheedles out of the end. He jiggles it in front of her face, wholeheartedly indulging in her annoyance.

'See! It's festive !' The tune continues to play, and Joey hums along to it, bobbing his head from side to side and conducting with his free hand.

'How lovely,' Martina says. 'How very lovely.'

'Aw,' coos Joey, knowing she's being sarcastic but deliberately pretending not to, 'you really think so?'

'No,' says Martina.

And snaps the pen in two.

* * *

**Nellie**

'And how are you three, then?' She doesn't have to force a smile- a beam emerges naturally when she beholds any of her grandchildren (except for Francesca, but what can you expect when she takes after her mother?), and even if that weren't the case, the fact that Harris and Davey have all but flung themselves on her would have brought one out anyway. Jimmy stands back- he's always been a bit more reserved- but he's grinning with all his pearly little teeth on show and he melts her heart just as the others do.

'Good, Granny!' Harris chimes, bouncing up and down and fairly dragging her in. Jimmy echoes in a softer voice.

''Twas a bit sick last night,' says Davey, in a grandly important voice, 'but I'm okay today.'

'Yeah,' Harris nods vigorously. 'He 'twas.'

'You can't use _'twas_ like that,' comes Adrian's gentle chide, and he nudges his children out the way to allow Nellie access to the house. The dog waddles in after her, its nose in the air, and the three boys immediately converge on it, cooing over it and making a fuss, and thus giving Nellie and Adrian a bit of space to sit and talk.

'I see you brought the dog, then,' Adrian says, though why a statement like that is necessary when he can see it's there is beyond her.

'Well,' she shrugs awkwardly, 'what can one do? I can't well leave it at home with Billy or Grandad, can I?'

'The poor little thing.' Adrian sits down, stretches his arms out in front of him and then frowns. 'Does it 'ave a name?'

'I don't…' Nellie stutters, 'I don't know, love. You see, it was…_his_ dog, and I'd never gotten around to asking, and…' She'd go into a bit of a pathetic ramble if it were anyone else listening, but she doesn't need to explain anything to Adrian. Adrian understands. Adrian understood from the moment she told him, defended her to the others, was proud she'd chosen to confide in him above everyone else.

Now he simply nods, taking her hand and patting it.

'Just, er…just make sure it doesn't…you know, do its business inside the house. With three children and all the paintin' I do, my carpet's already 'angin' by a thread.'

Nellie smiles half-heartedly, patting Adrian's hand back and glancing over at the boys once more. Harris and Davey have somehow managed to get hold of both its paws and are waving them about- all in good humour, of course, though that can't be comfortable- but her little friend seems remarkably patient about the whole affair, sitting on its haunches without so much as a whimper while her grandchildren play with it like a toy.

Adrian follows her gaze, and lines crease his brow as he notices the spectacle.

'Cut it out!' he commands, in a voice clearly adapted from Joey's parental tone, 'cut-it-out! Harris, Davey- how would you like it if someone tore you ferociously limb from…er…just put the dog down, okay?'

They grin guiltily and release its front legs. The dog blinks, still not in the least bit bothered about being pulled around, puts its paws down, yawns and scratches its head, the little locket on its collar jingling ferociously against the buckle. Nellie's absorbed in watching it for a minute, her mind spinning off in a different direction. She'd noticed the odd little decoration on its collar before, and, never having remembered it from the days when Derek was alive, and assuming it was a name tag, had inspected it. It's a little oval, a heart engraved on one side, more appropriate for a necklace than for being strung round the neck of a household pet. She's tried opening it, wondering what Derek might consider so precious as to encase and attach to his dog, but the little lock holding the two sides together won't budge, no matter what she uses to prise it all apart. She's resigned herself to leaving it be for the time being, but now she wonders, while she's here with Adrian, whether she shouldn't ask him to have a try.

She opens her mouth and then shuts it again. Adrian is still, in his wimpish way, trying to get his two youngest sons to settle down. They're chasing each other round his legs now, and he's becoming more and more hysterical as he tries to pull them apart and calm them down.

Jimmy, standing a little way apart from the rest of the group, looks oddly at the lot of them and then comes and sits down next to Nellie. He's a quiet, philosophical little thing, is Jimmy- much like his father, the original Jimmy for whom he's named. Adrian had given him the name in an attempt, she's sure, to appease her for having cast it off himself when he came of age, and he's not only inherited his Dad's title but quite a few of his personality traits. He could have stepped out of one of her baby pictures, a shy, sweet and replica of her son, from back in the good old days when they were all little, adorable and ador_ing_, and she could gather them all up in her arms.

Except for the fact that when he snuggles closer and looks up at her, it's not Adrian's brown eyes but Irenee's hazel ones that look up at him. He's not her son, she has to realise. She's never going to get those days back- they're long gone, and fading into a distant past. This is the life she's got now, whether she wants it or not- grown-up, detached children, grandchildren she can cuddle and love but never claim for herself, and a second-hand dog with no name and a locket she can't open.

She runs her fingers through Jimmy's curls as she ponders this, wondering just what she's supposed to do. She'd tried making herself happy by putting herself first, she'd chosen her family instead and now, though she knows it's a wonderful thing she's here with Adrian now, that she'll have Ursula and Nick and Joey and Jack and Billy, she can't be a hundred per cent happy about that either. There's something missing from both plans, but she can't work out exactly what it is. In both, she still feels somehow that something's not right, that something about _her_ is still wrong. She'd been praying all night to work out what it was, what she can do to feel happy again, but the answer hasn't come yet. She wonders how long it'll take, what it'll take to make her realise how she can fix the situation, fix her life.

Adrian finally manages to separate Harris and Davey, and, amid trying unsuccessfully to frown them down, looks up to smile at Nellie.

'You coming into the dining room, Mam? It's about time for lunch.'

Putting all her thoughts to one side for a while, she gives Jimmy's hair another stroke and stands up to join her son and grandsons.

* * *

**Adrian**

Something about his Mam isn't quite right, Adrian's noticed- and from what he can gather from snippets of his other siblings' conversation, it hasn't been for a while. He's been doing his best to observe her, to see if he can ascertain exactly what it is that's bothering her- something to do with her gentleman friend, he thinks, given the dog seems to be in her custody now- and he'd send the children out the room and ask, were he not preoccupied with his own life. He'd rung Irenee this morning, if it could still be called morning at midday when the children finally got bored with _The Night Before Christmas_ and run off, but she'd been out, and now he's somewhat anxiously awaiting her return call. Even now, as he's trying to keep his eyes on his terrible cooking, coax his kids to eat a few more bites and keep up a conversation with Nellie at once, his ear is still strained in the direction of the phone.

Davey is stuffing a handful of overcooked carrots into his mouth and chewing with his mouth open. Jimmy has one hand on Nellie's wrist, and is trying to recite _The Night Before Christmas_, but getting the words wrong (in his version, there are three kittens, no mice, and St. Nicholas turns up in a Jaguar). Harris is surreptitiously feeding slices of ham to the dog. Adrian wants to say something to one of them- anything, to anyone- but every time he thinks of a suitable conversation-starter, the house settles, the clock ticks or someone's chair scrapes the floor ever so slightly, and he finds his head swinging in the direction of the hall and the phone.

'You're a bit jumpy, our Adrian,' his Mam remarks. 'Something the matter?'

'No, no, er, I….er….' Adrian stammers. She doesn't know, she doesn't _need_ to know about Carmen, but all the same, it seems as if she's staring at him with suspicion. She's not, of course, just…well, not even all that interested by the looks of it, less concerned than usual, but it still makes him internally squirm.

'I just…'

_Rring!_

Never has anything come at such a wonderful time. Adrian leaps from his chair, leaving the lot of them behind and running into the hall so fast he slips on the tiles and lands on his face.

Judging by the squeals of laughter in the dining room, his boys saw him. Just when his image was already hanging by a thread.

Adrian does his best to ignore them, picks himself up and grabs hold of the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Adrian?'

He'd thought this would make it worse. He'd expected to break out in a sweat, to be wringing his hands, his nerves taking over, but none of that happens. He'd expected to be wracked with the worst bout of guilt yet, to be doubled over with it, unable to speak or breathe.

But none of that's happening. It may be the shock, but he's not doing any of that. Instead of triggering those reactions, the sound of Irenee's voice has made him break out in a smile- and not just any smile but the goofy, embarrassing sort of smile he'd find himself pulling back in sixth-form college when a girl he fancied deigned to talk to him.

Guilty he may be, a pathetic wreck of a man he may be, unworthy of her he may be, but Adrian, despite all that, has missed his wife something awful, and hearing her now has lifted his soul like nothing for the past week has.

'Irenee,' he breathes, and though he knows the guilt will return at any second, he can hear bells jingling in celebration in his mind.

* * *

**Joey**

'Well, it serves you right to have gotten ink all over your gloves,' Joey laughs, unable to hide his amusement as Martina rubs her bare hands together and then stuffs them in her pockets to protect them from the cold.

'What d'you think's gonna happen if you break a pen?'

Martina's good mood had ended once she'd had to throw her gloves out, but her annoyance is fun to watch. It's perfect timing, really, he thinks- one of his gifts to her is a new pair anyway- and _real_ suede this time. He's going to get her into stylish, tasteful and non-imitation garments if it's the last thing he does. He's a Boswell, after all- only the best for _his_ wife.

They turn a corner, and suddenly the solicitor's office is looming ahead of them, and Joey's stomach-bats awaken once again, the happy amusement at his little trick on his wife fading away as all the worst-case scenarios with the card come back and slap him in the face.

He falters in his step, and Martina's hand emerges from her pocket to squeeze his.

'It'll be all right, love,' she says, her cold fingers clenching around his wrist. 'Just go in there, get it sent off and it'll all be over and done with.'

'Maybe I should…' he looks up at the sign over the door and winces, 'put it off…'

'You're cuttin' it a _bit_ fine as it is!' Martina reminds him. 'It's only two days 'til Christmas - you leave it any later there'll be no chance of it gettin' there 'til mid-January.'

She's right. He hates it when she's right about these things, but she always is. If he gives it to his solicitor now, he can make the necessary arrangements to send it on, and though it may not arrive Christmas Day, there's a good change Oscar can receive it by the 27th. If not, he'll have to wait until after New Year- the offices are closing up tomorrow for the Christmas period.

He nods his assent, kisses her goodbye, and for luck, and walks through the door, managing, even though he _is_ worried, _is_ slightly nervous, to keep his stride cool and dignified. He is Joey Boswell, after all. He has a certain image to uphold.

It must look a bit forced, because he can hear Martina laughing at him. He flips a rather inappropriate gesture in her direction and carries on, exaggerating his swagger deliberately just to give her something to _really_ laugh about and giving rather a ridiculous wave over his shoulder as he steps into the building.

He keeps up the pretentious stride all the way up to the front desk.

'Mister…?'

_We go through this every time, sunshine_, Joey thinks, trying his best not to give the receptionist a pitiful look. She's that type- only a year or two above twenty at the most; hair dyed a revolting colour, makeup just short of a clown's and a mind and memory with the consistency of cotton wool. He'd practically lived in this waiting room in the few months leading up to his divorce, had numerous chats with her that had lasted over an hour sometimes when days were slow and the solicitor was running late, and still she didn't seem to recognise him. He'd leave late in the afternoon and she'd be calling him by name and shouting goodbyes after him, and at ten the next morning he'd be relegated to a total stranger once more.

Joey swallows his frustration with an in-breath, and instead, turns on the charm.

'Flynn,' he says, flashing his teeth and winking. 'Errol Flynn.'

She doesn't catch on, but actually starts running her finger down her appointment book.

'Flynn…Flynn…are you sure you 'ad an appointment for today?'

Joey snorts and gives up. 'Boswell, sweetheart. Joey Boswell. Remember? I helped you find that stapler a while back, and it turned up in the fish tank?'

She stares at him. Clearly it doesn't ring a bell.

'I was here when the roof caved in, a couple o' months ago? I've been here more times than you can c…' oh, there's no point. 'I'm booked in for two o'clock?'

'Oh, yeah, Boswell…' this is normally the point when anyone with any sense, or without an apparent memory problem, would pause, and repeat, in a slightly lower tone of voice, _oh, yeah…BOS-well.._.but the receptionist simply confirms that yes, he does have a two o'clock appointment, directs him to his solicitor's office, even though he could walk the way blindfolded by now, and tells him he can go straight in.

And so straight in he goes, finding himself humming _Land of Hope and Glory_ like the disgruntled DHSS client he never was, the envelope with the card in clutched tightly between his fingers.

* * *

**Nellie**

The lunch has been cleared away and Adrian has returned from a phone call with the oddest smile on his face that Nellie thinks she's ever seen. He's been a lot chattier since he came back to the table, but every now and then he'll let out a funny little laugh when nobody's saying anything. But it's not an uneasy laugh, it's a…it's…she's known him for thirty-six years and she's never seen anything like it. She'd ask, but…well…

They're back on the sofa again, Derek's dog having squeezed itself behind her legs, most likely to protect himself from any more assaults by the three boys, resting its head against her calf and making strange little snoring noises, and the children are all huddled on the floor, flipping through a pop-up Christmas book so roughly she's sure they'll tear the pages sooner or later, and pretending to read it to each other. Adrian glances over at them, and then turns to face her.

'Mam,' he begins, strangely nervous, and Nellie wonders if some sort of confession is about to come her way.

'Yes, love?'

'Well, er…' he gestures in the direction of his boys, and Jimmy jumps up off the floor and runs from the room. 'Seein' as you're stayin' at home to look after Aveline's kids, and, well, we probably won't see you now 'til after Christmas…'

If only he'd known. Nellie forces away a semi-wicked smug thought and a bubble of guilt which rise at the same time as she remembers her original plans, and manages to keep her face a safe neutral.

'Well, we thought we might give you your present now.'

Jimmy has returned, carrying a small wrapped parcel carefully between his hands, holding it out in front of him as though it might shatter at any moment. Adrian gives him a smile and a little pat on the back and takes it from him, placing it in her lap.

Nellie freezes, just looking at it for a while, not bringing herself to move, though she's not sure why. It's not as if she hasn't been given presents before- her children always give her gifts, no matter what they might think of her- but for some reason just looking at this one makes her feel queasy. She's not sure it even is guilt- she's entitled, after all, to want time to herself, and even though she's dutifully put family above that _again_, she still yearns a little for it- but whatever it is, it's giving her an unusual feeling inside.

Adrian is still looking at her expectantly, and so, with trembling hands, though she's not sure why they should be trembling, she picks it up and begins to peel away the paper.

'Oh, love!' Nellie's throat dries up, the exclamation croaking its way out. She stares at the present, trying to make it come into focus through the tears that have suddenly made themselves known. 'Oh…' she runs her hand over it, trying to blink them back, 'Adrian, love!'

It's not a big present, nor would it have been a particularly costly one. Adrian's spent more money on her before, usually in conjunction with Jack, and he's put more effort into making things for her. But what she sees makes Nellie want to cry and crush him into an embrace.

It's a little hinged double photo-frame, no bigger than her hand, probably no more than a few quid at the most, and clearly not real silver, but the pictures in it make her breath catch. On the left side, her younger self grins up at her, sitting primly on a chair with Freddie Boswell's hands on her shoulders and her children surrounding her, from a lanky but still dignified teenage Joey standing by her side to a chubby-faced little Billy in her lap. This was the last family photo they had took, the whole lot of them, before Freddie became _too_ interested in Lilo Lil to hang around for family gatherings, probably taken by Grandad before senility got the best of him, and she doesn't know how or where Adrian procured a small version of the portrait, but she doesn't care. She's overwhelmed by it. Happy days, those were, when all her children were still quite young and absorbed in each other and in family life, and Freddie was still at the helm, but not yet too unbalanced to keep them afloat, and the picture reminds her that, for a time, they really were quite happy. There was a time when the rows were at a minimum, when the kids were too young to be wanting a shedload of independence, but the older ones old enough to help out, to be companions and friends, and Nellie looks back on that time fondly.

The picture beside it makes her want to cry too, but for entirely different reasons. Adrian's clearly used the old family portrait as a model for this one- he's got Irenee sitting on a chair, his arms around her, and Jimmy, Harris and Davey standing around, goofily grinning. Her heart swells with pride- her son has done well for himself, has grown up into a wonderful and handsome young man, and has enriched the family by adding a wife and children to it- and yet, though it's all lovely, though the thought he's put into this particular gift is touching, she still wants to bury her face in a cushion and sob about it. She'll never get those good old days back. They're all grown-up, those darling cherubs from the first photo, each of them with their own lives, their own families, their own stories to tell of their lives and adventures in which she does not feature. It's a blessing and a curse at the same time, having children, Nellie decides, and she can't make up her mind whether to be immensely happy or immensely miserable about the gift Adrian has given her.

She looks up at him, knowing there will be tears visibly glistening in her eyes.

'Oh, love,' she says for a third time, and she needn't say any more, because Adrian takes one look at her and pulls her into an embrace.

'Thank you,' she mutters as she clutches him tightly. 'Thank you.'

* * *

**Adrian**

It is always wonderful, knowing you've chosen the perfect gift, and judging by his Mam's response, he's done just that. She's moved to tears by it- a bit more of an emotional reaction than he was expecting, truth be told, but evidently grateful, and for that Adrian is happy. At least one person was pleased with their present, anyhow. The kids'll be fairly easily pleased at their age, too- the only one he really has to worry about is Irenee with the portrait. He's going to be up late tonight finishing those eyes off, and stressing all the way.

When Irenee had gotten back to him, Adrian had gone a bit, well…hysterical, taken with a mixture of irony, humour and fear at her response.

'Irenee,' he'd begun, ready to just spit it out. 'I've got…'

'Adrian, there's something I've been meaning to ask you,' she'd interrupted before he could so much as mention Carmen.

'Ask me?'

'Yeah, look, a friend of mine's been havin' a bit o' trouble lately, and I was gonna ask you before I went away but I didn't get the chance- I was thinkin' of inviting her round for Christmas.' A pause. 'Is that all right?'

Hmm. Well, that hadn't really been what he was expecting, but he'd been perfectly happy with the change in plans. If someone else was coming, how hard could it be to just stick in an _oh, by the way, can Carmen come too?_ He'd opened his mouth to do just that, but once again, Irenee had gotten there first.

'Great- thanks, Adrian. I'll get in touch with Carmen tonight.' And she'd rung off.

Adrian had been stunned. Since when had Irenee been planning to ask Carmen over? Well, that was a bit ridiculously convenient, but all right, it'd save him a confession.

Then, of course, the other spanner had come flying into the works and hit him on the head. It could have just been his neuroses spurring him on, it could have been completely unwarranted, but the thought had occurred to Adrian that what if Carmen let on that Adrian had already invited her? What then? He'd been planning to tell Irenee and hope for the best, yes, but now he didn't have to, if Carmen, for some reason, should happen to mention it, Irenee would get suspicious for certain, and start to wonder why he'd invited her before she herself had suggested it, and then she might discover that they'd…

_Oh, why can't anything ever just be simple?_

He'd come up with a plan, of course- and remarkably quickly too, but he's been waiting until his mother has safely gone until he puts it into action. He watches as his sons pounce on her and hug her, listens as her footsteps fade away down the street, and then Adrian runs back to the phone. He has one more call to make.

* * *

**Joey**

'Mister Boswell. How splendid to see you…' his solicitor pauses for emphasis, '_again._'

Joey doesn't let it faze him. 'Ah. Greetings. Just a small thing.'

'It always is,' the solicitor mutters, and then has an obvious struggle with himself trying to produce a smile. 'And what can I do for you _this_ afternoon?'

'I'd like you to forward this on to Roxy's solicitors, please,' Joey says, smiling winningly as he hands the card over. 'Oh, and, make it snappy, won't you? It's for Christmas.'

'Hmmmm,' says the solicitor, taking the envelope from him and studying it. 'Of course, you do understand, we can't just send a piece of mail through without checking the contents first, don't you?'

'It's only a Christmas card!'

'And a rather large sum of money…' he's taking it apart now, and making Joey tense in his seat. He always does this- Joey's used to it by now, having his letters and parcels pulled open and scrutinised, but it still annoys him.

'Well,' he keeps his tone light, 'the kid deserves a bit o' somethin' nice at Christmas, wouldn't you say?'

'Yes,' his solicitor says rather unconvincingly. 'Well, then, Mister Boswell, I'll get the paperwork sorted and have this, er…_thing_,' he waves the card carelessly about, 'sent on. I trust you've been informed about the recent changes?'

'No,' Joey says, expecting to hear a boring account of some legal procedure he'll never quite understand. His solicitor is always rambling about slight changes to the office, to the system, to the way the alimony is sent and when it has to go out, things which seem pointless to him but are unfathomably essential. He'll hear whatever it is, he'll make slight adjustments to his schedule and that'll be it. Easy. Done.

'Oh,' Joey's solicitor pushes his spectacles up his nose, stands up and walks to the window. Joey's heart does a funny jump. That's not a good sign. When he gets up and starts pacing around, rather than sitting and looking at him squarely, something is going on- he either disapproves of something Joey's suggested or asked for, or he's about to break some unpleasant news.

Judging by the fact that all Joey's done this visit is produce a card to be sent on, he's banking on the latter.

'Didn't you receive the letter we sent last month?'

'Letter?' It's the first he's heard of it. There was no letter- last month, this month- for _six_ months, in fact.

The solicitor's face screws up. 'I gave it to my secretary to post.'

Well, that explains why it hasn't arrived. It's probably still in the dozy cow's in-tray somewhere, marked to be sent off to someone who isn't called Boswell.

'What was in the letter?' he asks tentatively.

The solicitor marches back to his desk and folds his hands. 'Your w- Ms. Hartwell has sought different legal representation.'

Joey nods slowly. 'Right. Okay. She's got a new solicitor.'

That doesn't sound so bad. The card gets sent to a different middle-man, then on to Roxy, and then, hopefully, on to Oscar. No sweat.

'As we are yet to set up proper contact with, as you put it, Ms. Hartwell's new solicitor, and come to arrangements vis a vis communication, and so on and so forth, it may take a while before your, er, _correspondence_ can go through.'

Joey feels an anger rising up his oesophagus.

'Why,' he says through his teeth, fighting the urge to rise and start shouting, 'didn't you start _comin' to arrangements_ sooner?'

'We've had a lot to get through,' says his solicitor, shrugging as if it doesn't matter that he hasn't been doing what Joey shells out grand amounts for, that he's been so busy with other projects, or just plain lazy, that he's been neglecting to do his duty to Joey. He's been neglecting to do his job, in short. This situation is looking bleaker by the minute.

Joey clenches his fist under the desk.

'How long, then,' he sighs, 'how long do you think it'd be until it gets there?' No point jumping to conclusions- there's still a _chance_ this isn't going to mess up his plans- very slight, but he's not letting go of it until it's completely lost.

His solicitor unclasps his hands, pretends to flick through his book in a pointless attempt to look busy, and then folds them again.

'All things going well- and, of course, taking into account Christmas, and Christmas leave, and all the other cases to take care of…'

'_How-long_?' he's almost taking on a Jack-like anger now- he'll get up and grab the incompetent idiot by the throat in a second.

The old man sighs. 'All things going well, I should imagine it'd be no later than mid-February.'

Mid-February. _Mid-February. _ After Christmas. And not just a short while after- _months_ after.

'But Oscar will think I've forgotten 'im!' he blurts, rage and shock and horror and disappointment all climbing over each other to get out. This is appalling, it really is. It's bad enough Joey's card might be lost, or tossed out by Roxy if she's in a bad mood, but at least he'll know that he's done everything he can to get it to his lad. Things that can be avoided, like solicitors messing around, he doesn't need. He just doesn't need it. And what if it did arrive in February? It'd be too late- far too late, and Oscar would have spent nearly two months thinking Joey had simply not bothered.

'Yes, it's all very inconvenient, Mister Boswell, but-'

'_But_,' Joey says, not letting him simply wave him away without having his say- it's not on, he's not going to sit quietly when this injustice is happening, 'you could at least have let me know about this _earlier._ You could at least have had the _decency_ and work ethic to start negotiatin' with Roxy's solicitors straight away, you could-'

'These sorts of things take work, Mister Boswell,' says his solicitor, not even raising an eyebrow, not even showing a hint of remorse, or even sympathy. 'And as for letting you know, we sent you a letter…'

'And _I never got any-_' Joey realises he's turning into Billy, and sits down again, gathering himself. 'Whatever happened to that letter, I never got it.'

The solicitor is flicking through his papers again. 'Well, I don't see how that- oh, wait a minute.'

He rummages some more and pulls out a watermarked piece of paper. 'Ah, yes, here it is.' He smacks himself lightly on the forehead, chuckling and smiling at Joey as if this is all a colossal joke. 'It was in my out-tray all this time- would you believe it?'

'Of course it was,' Joey snaps, shoving his chair aside and standing. He snatches the letter and stalks from the office, flinging the door open and storming past the secretary without even trying to get her to remember his name.

_Of course it was._

* * *

**Nellie**

Three things happen when she gets home.

She puts the photo frame on the mantelpiece.

Billy comes home, treads mud through the carpet, flings himself down onto the sofa and doesn't notice it.

The dog wanders in, just sits there and stares.

Nellie looks from the picture to Billy to the dog and doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

**Adrian**

By the time the doorbell rings, nearly all of Adrian's nails are bitten down to the quick. He rises, his legs suddenly shaking again, though they've no real reason to.

'Who's that?'

'Can I get the door?'

'No, _I_ wanna do it!'

'It's my turn! 'Twas your turn last time!'

'Not 'twas _again!_'

Adrian sighs, gently nudging the boys out of the way and opening the door himself.

Carmen stands self-consciously in the doorway, her hair reflective in the late afternoon light, one hand on her hip and the other fiddling with her handbag, as if she's not quite sure where to put them both.

'Adrian,' she says quietly.

'Carmen,' he says back.

Silence.

'Who's that?' demands Harris loudly from behind him. Adrian snaps out of his trance and urges his second-born forward.

'This,' he says, gesturing in her vague direction, 'is Aunt Carmen.' The words taste strange and fizzy I his mouth- _Aunt Carmen, Aunt Carmen, what on earth is he thinking?_

Harris grins and offers a sticky hand for her to shake. Her own hand hovers, hesitant.

'Er, come in,' Adrian opens the door wider, wondering just how much more uncomfortable this will get before the day is out. 'Sit down.'

'Thanks,' she replies just as awkwardly, seating herself in Irenee's spot on the sofa without realising, and Adrian has to force himself not to look into her eyes, for fear repercussions of his portrait looking like Carmen and not his wife will follow.

More silence.

'Your children are…lovely,' Carmen says, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands over her knee.

'Yes,' Adrian says weakly. 'They are.'

'Very lovely.'

'Yeah.'

'Look like both of you.'

'Yeah, they- Carmen,' Adrian has more than had enough of this embarrassing conversation. He pushes away his nerves and his feelings of unpleasantness and looks directly at her. 'About Christmas Day…'

'You changed your mind- I thought you might…'

'No, Carmen…'

'It's all right, Adrian,' she says, fixing her eyes on a random fleck on the ceiling. 'It really is. I sort of expected it.'

'No, Carmen,' Adrian says again, reaching over to clasp her hands. 'That's not what I wanted to say- I asked you round today to tell you…' he takes a breath, 'Irenee's invited you for Christmas as well.'

'Oh.' Carmen lets go of his hands and leans back in her seat. 'Is that it? I don't see why you couldn't have told me that on the phone.'

'No, no, you don't understand,' he's getting a nervous twitch from all this- in a minute his eye will start winking and blinking of its own accord. These past few days, _honestly_… he doesn't need any more parts of his body or psyche hanging by a thread, thank you. 'Carmen, Irenee didn't know I'd already invited you when she suggested it, and I just thought…' he fumbles around trying to undo the catch on his wristwatch, just because he doesn't know how to continue. 'I just thought…'

'Thought what, Adrian?'

Adrian looks over at his kids. Better not say anything in front of them- even if they didn't understand, something might rub off on them and get back to Irenee. Children tend to repeat what they hear, he reflects, thinking wryly of his sons' use of the word _'twas_ today, and without fully understanding what it is they're repeating.

'Boys,' he says, 'will you run upstairs and check to see how my painting is drying?' He doesn't really like the idea of the children being too close to the picture, jabbing at it to ascertain whether it's dry and potentially ruining it, but if it'll get them out of the room for just a minute or two he can get his piece said.

They're off like a shot.

'But don't…' he yells after them, just in time to see their legs disappear up the stairs. '…touch it.'

Carmen is staring at him quizzically, so he returns to the matter at hand.

'Look, Carmen, as Irenee's invited you- and she's planning to ring you later to do so- perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be…well,' he shrugs, 'better to pretend you hadn't already had an invitation, wouldn't you say? Otherwise Irenee might…' he lets it hang.

'Get suspicious,' Carmen finishes for him. Adrian nods.

It's surreal, he thinks again, the sort of conversation they're having. He remembers sitting in his Grandad's parlour, wishing fervently for decent, serious talks with Carmen, with a bit more depth and substance to them than _wasn't it wonderful_ and _we haven't done it in three days_. Now here they are, almost a decade later, and in the past week they've talked about marital infidelity, loneliness, sour relationships, family and Christmas.

Funny how things turn out. Very funny indeed.

'The painting looks dry, to _me_, Daddy!'

They're back. Adrian smiles as Jimmy, Harris and Davey come bounding in, and then his smile falters as he notices that Harris's index finger sports a suspicious-looking beige splodge.

'Except for one bit,' he says, giving a sheepish little grin.

Adrian lets out a moan before he can stop himself.

'Oh, Harris, you didn't!' He groans again and resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. 'Please tell me you didn't…'

'It was all right, Dad,' Harris insists, 'it was wet, but I rubbed it dry.'

Oh, nonononono…

He's up off the sofa in an instant.

'Carmen, would you just keep an eye on them while I check on the painting?'

Before Carmen can so much as begin a reply, Davey has climbed onto the couch beside her.

She smiles and nods, and then, tentatively, reaches out an arm to wrap around the lad.

Davey, to his credit, has always been an affectionate lad, and he doesn't need any encouragement to snuggle closer.

'Aunt Carmen's nice, Daddy,' he says.

Adrian begins to shape a response, but he's rather struck by what he sees before him.

He looks at Carmen, with a small child in her arms, and he wonders…

* * *

**Ah, Joey. He can't stand the idea that someone might have forgotten him. As for the solicitor scenes, I was dragged into solicitors' offices as a child and have spent a lot of time in their waiting rooms/reception areas, so I'm trying to go off what I know. I don't know how successful I was at making it realistic, but ah well.**

**Also, I should probably clear something up I didn't make explicit- Joey was always going to have to send the card through the solicitor, not post it, as he doesn't know Roxy's address. The fact that Martina put a stamp on it was more to prove that she knew about it and that she approved of his sending it than anything. **


	11. December 24

**Please forgive the fact that the plot is, in this fic, extremely higgledy-piggledy and in some places non-existent. This is really more just Christmas-themed reflection, fluff and angst, and I am sorry about that. And the fact that they do change their minds a lot. :P**

**There's also a tongue-in-cheek reference I couldn't resist. I'm sorry.**

* * *

**December 24****th**

**Joey**

'It's no good sulking, love.'

The look Joey gives Martina is contemptuous, to say the least. He's never put so much disgust into a facial expression before, let alone directed it at someone. Martina raises her eyebrows back at him, the usual _don't give me this rubbish_ face she saves for the most pathetic of all DSS excuses or complaints.

She sets a cup of tea down in front of him. Joey pushes it aside.

'Now look 'ere,' she says sternly, pulling up a chair beside him and holding his gaze, her eyes denying him permission to look away from her, 'there's no point in takin' it out on me. I told yer sendin' it this close to Christmas was cuttin' it fine, and quite frankly, if you 'adn't spent so much time creepin' around with it behind me back and makin' a fuss about hidin' it from me, instead o' just gettin' on with it, it might already have gotten there by now.'

'No it wouldn't,' Joey says, ignoring the riveting look and tearing his eyes away from her anyway. 'She'd already changed solicitors by then. And they didn't even…' he tears up, puts a fist to his mouth and waits 'til he's gathered himself, 'they didn't even bother to send me a letter about it. It was just _sittin'_ in that bastard's out-tray as if it didn't matter…I bet he won't even have bothered to get into contact with Roxy's solicitor by February- if he couldn't even be arsed to post…'

_'Joey_,' Martina warns, just as his fist comes down on the kitchen table, 'that's enough now. You're gettin' over the top, and that doesn't solve anythin'.'

'You don't know what this feels like!' Joey snaps. 'To be cut off from someone as if you'd never even met them in the first place, you don't know what it-'

'Don't I?' Martina's voice is suddenly cold, like she's plunged it- and him- into a bucket of icy water. Joey stops short, and looks up at her again, wanting to smash his face into the wood of the table for his stupidity.

'Aw, hey, sweetheart, I'm sorry,' he reaches a hand out to rub her arm, and she shrugs away from him. Oh, he's done it now, he really has. The whole point, he remembers miserably, of not wanting to tell Martina about the Oscar card was because he didn't want her to feel hurt, and because she'd lost people in the past and might fear losing him. Now all he's done is act childish about it so she's hurt about him deceiving her, and then reminded her of the people she's lost in his own despair. What an idiot. What a complete and total idiot.

'Martina…' he turns right around in his chair and wraps his arms as tightly round her as they'll go. Her hair's wet, and the back of her dressing gown cold and damp, but he ignores all this, holding her even tighter. 'I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I just didn't think…'

'That much is obvious, yeah,' she says, and then she sighs, and her voice melts, 'and that's not like you, Joey Boswell.' She's lightened her tone into a tease, but Joey can detect the hurt still streaking through it.

'Not at all like a man who spends an inordinate amount of time thinkin' about intricate little ways of claimin' money, and spendin' hours on fiddles which turn out to only get yer an extra two pounds a week.'

Joey laughs faintly, but it doesn't come out right. 'Martina, look, I…'

'Just forget it, love,' she holds a hand up to halt him, 'just forget it. Just think before you speak next time.'

'I will, sweetheart, I will,' he kisses her cheek, feeling her relax and lean against his side, 'I just can't believe…'

'_Joey_…' Martina grabs his hand, squeezing it so tightly he's sure it'll come out of the ordeal with deep nail marks, 'no more now. We've got to go down to yer family in an hour or two- d'you really want them ter see you like this on Christmas?'

She's right. He hates it when she's right about these things, but she always is. And she'll probably go on being right and all. Martina seems to know what he needs better than he does, sometimes.

'And since when did you want to see people cheery, anyway?' he jests, making a whole-hearted attempt to start cheering himself up, or at least to put on a façade of it for everyone else's sake. 'Weren't you always the one tryin' to make everyone down the DHSS cry?'

Martina just twists her mouth in a way that says _true_.

'There is a difference, though, love,' she adds when Joey begins to laugh at her, 'this is Christmas Eve, and the last thing anyone wants on a day like this is cryin' – especially not in front of yer family, makin' the whole lot of 'em miserable. And after all, aren't you always the one goin' on about family bein' the most important thing in the 'ole entire world?'

Ooh, one all. Joey's going to have to think of a way to beat that comment and come back out on top. He can't think of anything, though. Curse his addled brain.

Martina rises slowly, pushes his teacup closer to him and steps towards the kitchen doorway, muttering something about getting changed. She stops just before she's closed the door all the way.

'Except for yer Jaguar, of course,' she smirks, and then disappears into the next room.

Two-one. Well, _that_'s not on. He's going to have to think of something brilliant to say when she comes back.

He sips his tea- now stone cold, though he doesn't care- and pours all his energy and thought into his attempts to conjure up a comeback, trying to wholly distract his thoughts away from the misery that's still putting little pin-pricks in his heart.

'Martina, I've had a thought,' he says when she returns, dressed in a maternity frock and a thick jumper and fastening her watch, 'aren't you the one who thinks makin' the whole lot o' me family miserable _is_ the most important thing in the whole entire world?'

Martina leans against the doorframe and shakes her head. 'You 'ad the whole time it took me ter dry me hair _and_ get dressed, and that's all you came up with? I think you're losin' your touch in yer old age, Mister Boswell.'

'Old age?!' Joey splutters. 'I'm only thirty-nine, that's practically a lad!' He gets up and all but runs across the room to her, sweeping her up into his arms, baby and all, and only staggering a little.

'See? I'm just as energetic as ever- and that goes for me mind, too.'

Martina is trying to keep a lid on a guffaw. 'Is that so?'

'It is so,' Joey nuzzles her neck, kissing the ticklish spot just below her jaw and making her laugh. She pushes against him and he carefully sets her down on her feet again.

'Well, then, Mister Practically-a-Lad,' Martina says, once she's composed herself, 'if you're so energetic…'

'Which I am…'

'Then surely you'll be up to drivin' me into town?'

Joey nods his agreement and then frowns. 'What d'you want to go into town for?'

'Thought I might go and visit the DSS this mornin',' she says, rather chirpily for her, 'frighten a few old friends fer Christmas.'

Joey chuckles and reaches for his car keys.

* * *

**Nellie**

When she comes downstairs, the house is ghostlike in its emptiness- Billy is still asleep up in his room, she'd left the dog snoozing on the foot of her bed, and there's no-one else around except her. It's a bit unsettling, really, being all but alone in the house. There have been so many years of her family all around her that now she's not accustomed to the silence and the solitude, and she's not sure she'll ever be. Is this what it'll be like when Billy finally pushes off for good (if he ever does)? Is this what it'll be like when Grandad eventually goes?

Is this, she wonders, what it would have been like had she gone away? Echoing and empty? Or would that have been different? She supposes she'll never know now. All she does know is that she's alone in the empty parlour, just standing there for no particular reason…

Oh, wait. She's not quite alone.

Somehow, she doesn't even _know_ how, Freddie has gotten into the house, and is now sprawled across the sofa, his moustache wobbling as he snores ever so lightly.

That's brilliant, isn't it? She supposes she should be angry or grateful- one or the other. She's just…resigned.

Nellie leaves him to domicile the entire settee, instead seating herself in one of the armchairs and staring aimlessly at the empty fireplace, then at the Christmas tree to its right.

It is a lovely one, she'll give it that. Jack and Billy had dragged it in together (probably having pinched it from the park, as Adrian used to be bullied into doing, but it's so lovely and full-bodied that she doesn't really feel like saying anything) a few days ago, and it's still green and fresh and filling the room with needles and the smell of pine. Only a few parcels sit beneath it, wrapped rather haphazardly. Of course only Billy would actually put his presents underneath the Christmas tree- he's the only one without fear that the others will try and snoop them early.

A strange impulse takes Nellie, and she crosses over and stoops down to examine them. She's not snooping- no, she was brought up a good girl- but it's strangely endearing to look at Billy's childlike attempts at proper present-ing. She can tell easily enough what's for who- obviously book-shaped parcel for Adrian, a hammer wrapped so its shape can be instantly made out for Jack, who's making a few alterations to one of the upstairs bedrooms over the road, small, long thin, bandy thing (probably jewellery) for Joey, bottle of perfume for her, recognisable by its overpowering chemical stench. The poor sweet little love- he's predictable, but he does try.

She goes to get up, and it's then that she sees the other package.

It's wrapped more carefully than the others, set aside and tied with a bow, though because of Billy's skills it's still fairly obvious it's a doll, and she knows without having to even think who it's for. Oh, she hopes Francesca at least pretends to appreciate it, for Billy's sake. Childish he may be, a bit of a hodgepodge father he may be, temperamental and tactless he may be, but he does love that little girl. It takes her back to her own days as a young mother, buying a few little treats and trinkets for little Joey and Jack and Adrian, when it was just the three of them and Aveline wasn't even a glint in Freddie's eye yet, hanging out little stockings for them and trying to get Freddie to act even a tiny bit enthusiastic about the presents she'd bought their offspring (that one was a losing battle). Poor soul. He's got his whole life ahead of him- all the joys and all the disappointments of parenthood still to come (although Nellie's inclined to think more disappointments than joys lie on the road before him- Francesca is a terror of a child, a little Julie-thinking Julie-speaking clone, who shows no affection for him no matter what he does.)

She thinks of her own sons and daughter, her own marriage, the fact that, even though now she's being forced to spend Christmas day with her family, somehow it seems more like she'll be spending it alone than if she had taken off and put herself first. Nellie doesn't know how she got to this point, where nothing family-related seems to mean anything anymore. She can't even bring herself to be fully happy about Adrian's thoughtful gift; it just reminds her again of what she lost- or, perhaps, what she didn't lose because she only _thought_ she had it. And she can sense that Billy might be headed the same way, doomed to feel unloved.

Nellie sits down, indulging in her near-solitude and allowing herself a few tears of self-pity and misery for the whole ramshackle affair of her life.

'Either my beloved Nellie Boswell is sitting before me,' comes a groggy voice from somewhere to her left, 'or I drank more than I thought last night. Hah!'

Nellie snuffles away the dregs of her tears before facing her husband.

'And what do you mean by coming here unannounced, Freddie Boswell?'

'I said I was gonna pass by, didn't I?' he snorts, one side of his moustache being blown a little out of shape. The sight would amuse another person, one with a shred of humour left inside of them, but not Nellie.

'I don't recall the definition of 'passing' involving using the furniture as a bedroom without permission,' Nellie says, though she _can_ recall Freddie using that definition of 'passing' before.

'Aw, you're all rosy-cheeked, you are,' Freddie says, heaving himself up into a sitting position so he can access her more easily and touch her face, ' and about as orange as a flaming-'

'And-what-did-I-say-yesterday-about-colour-chart-comparisons, Freddie Boswell?' She gets up, dodging his attempts to touch her and skating around his outstretched arm.

'Aw,' he says again, a twinkle in his eye. 'You. Nellie Boswell. Comin' home to you is what Christmas is all about.'

Nellie would say something back, probably something along the lines of _get out of my house_ or _enough of your sweet talk_, but she's floored by her own memory and vision, working together like co-conspirators to superimpose Derek's face over the top of her husband's.

'I'll, er,' she says, rubbing her hands together even though it's not particularly cold inside the house, 'I'll go and start the breakfast, then.'

And she scurries off to seek sanctuary in the kitchen.

* * *

**Adrian**

He's had one, maybe two winks of sleep, but that's it. He can still feel the spot on his cheek where Carmen kissed it last night, before she headed off home. He can still hear Davey's voice, _Aunt Carmen's nice_ whirling round and round his head. He can still see those few seconds of Carmen with Davey in her arms.

He doesn't believe this. He doesn't believe it at all. It's unbelievable, that's what it is.

He has been up half the night, maybe more, worrying. That's not the unbelievable part, though- Adrian spends four out of every seven nights worrying about something or other, on average. That's just who he is. Something about his life is always hanging by a thread, and since the affair with Carmen nearly all his nights have been plagued with some degree of sleeplessness.

What's unbelievable is that this time, he hasn't been kept awake because of himself. It's Carmen who's been plaguing his thoughts- and not in the usual way, frightening him and making him worry she'll somehow ruin his life. This time, he's worrying _for_ her. Poor Carmen. She was never the most serious of women when it came to relationships, always searching for the hedonistic pleasures in life rather than anything lasting – it's no wonder she's alone now. But, whether or not Adrian's still frightened of the way she used him in the past, whether or not he's annoyed now about the affair that shouldn't have happened, when he looks at her now, strangely vulnerable, he realises he still feels something for her.

It's not love. All of that is focussed on Irenee, one hundred per cent. It's not _that_ sort of love, anyway. It's some sort of pity, Adrian thinks, mingled with a desire to see her happy. Carmen hasn't had much, not really. He thinks back to the other day, when he was reflecting on his own marriage, when he came to the conclusion that, excluding that one incident that might have lost him everything, he's got the happiest relationship he could wish for. He remembers feeling sorry for his brothers and sister, all of them having made some questionable choices in their lives; marrying for the wrong reasons, refusing to let go of the past, trapped or alone or in a situation he just can't figure out at all (Joey). He'd wished, briefly, that somehow they could taste the happiness he has, that lasting, sensible, realistic sort of love. And now he wishes the same for Carmen. He could see in her eyes yesterday that here was a woman who had expected so much and been let down. She may have been a bit- well, reckless isn't probably a strong enough word- in her youth, but oh, is she paying for it now. They're in their late thirties now, and while Adrian has settled, Carmen is still wandering, still trying to find something that clicks in her life.

Adrian wonders where he'd be right now if they'd stayed together. Would he too be wandering, trotting after Carmen in search for a better life? Would they have married? He can't see it having lasted. And he can't see himself having such wonderful children as he does now, had that scenario taken place, either.

What can he do about Carmen, though? It's not in Adrian's nature to want to see people suffer (except Billy, sometimes, when he's been discussing blood and guts at the dinner table, but when it comes down to it, he always ends up comforting him when he's _really _upset). He wants to see Carmen cheerful, with a fulfilling life of her own, but he's not exactly sure how he can help that happen. The best he can hope for is to offer her his friendship, rather than making her skulk around Irenee when he's not there, to show her that people do care for her, and hope that, maybe, allowing her to build some more serious and lasting platonic relationships can steer her in the right direction of how to act in her romantic life.

That's the best he can do, anway.

Adrian rolls over and looks at the clock that sits by Irenee's side of the bed. He's still not used to her spot being empty, even though she leaves frequently, and he knows that, regardless of what he might have done with Carmen, he will sleep a bit easier when she's beside him.

Nearly nine. Adrian shoots up- that's far too late for him. He stayed in bed a lot when he was first redundant, all those years ago, or when his artistic temperament made him depressed in the early days of his poet/painter life, but now he's gotten himself back into a more regimented routine. And today of all days he's got to make good use of his time- Irenee's back later today- _either afternoon or evening_ were his exact words, meaning he may have more time or he may have less- and he's got a painting still to finish.

He jumps out of bed and pads down the hallway, stopping to look in on the boys. They're all still asleep, bless them, Jimmy a perfect angel of a child, a bit of grey morning light touching his curls and his thumb in his mouth, Harris a bit more messy in his slumber, his blankets all thrown around, and Davey curled around his pillow like it's an extension of himself, and never to be let go of. Beautiful little things, all of them. Adrian just watches them sleep for a while, listening to their soft breathing, and then remembers his mission and carries on.

The painting is now in the spare bedroom, under lock and key since his sons saw fit to smudge it when ascertaining if it was dry. He'd patched up the ruined bit once Carmen had left and they were all packed off to bed, but the eye sockets on Irenee are still smooth and blank. It had seemed a bit eerie last night. Now it looks strangely hopeful and expectant, awaiting his artist's touch to bring life and soul back to the picture.

He closes his own eyes for a minute, conjuring up a picture of Irenee's lovely face in his mind, remembering his favourite times with her when she was laughing at something he'd done, her cheeks dimpled and her irises alight with mischief. He fills his head with the sound of her laughter and her voice, and reminds himself of just how lucky he is, just how he could have turned out.

He blinks, lets the canvas come into focus and picks up his brush.

* * *

**Joey**

Going into town hadn't much aided his resolution to cheer up. It had meant driving past that bastard solicitor's office, and all his anger and disappointment had come back stronger than ever before. It didn't help that he'd discovered the letter- that fateful letter, ignored for so long rather than delivered to him at the right time- had still been folded in his coat pocket. Martina had asked if he wanted to come in with her when they reached the DSS, throw the word _greetings_ about and annoy the staff like in old times, but he'd turned the offer down, choosing instead to sit and wait in the car and mull things over, all his negative emotions boiling up in the cooking pot of his brain and getting worse and worse and worse.

They're driving back to Kelsall Street now, about ten minutes away, but the drive is doing nothing to improve his state of mind. At this rate he'll be turning up on the doorstep wearing a scowl- _and_ so will Martina, seeing as he's disobeying her instructions to even try and put a brave face on it for his family. He can't much help it, though. And besides, _she_ always indulges in black moods and grey mornings when something gets her down. It's not as if she has a right to talk.

She hasn't been doing all that much talking, though- Martina is thoroughly absorbed at the moment, her head bent over a new Social Security brochure she's acquired from one of her colleagues. He doesn't understand how she's not throwing up- Joey's never been able to read in the car, but Martina seems to be doing fine. Occasionally she'll throw a comment about a new policy his way, teasing him by suggesting ways she expects he'll exploit it when it's implemented in the New Year, and he'll struggle to come up with a witty reply. For the most part, though, he says nothing, staring ahead at the road to keep himself from driving into a pole or another car in his state of mind.

The traffic cones have already been moved out the way for the Jag when they pull up, and Grandad's on his doorstep, waving his stick above his head.

'Oi! You! Oi, you! 'ave you brought me lunch or 'aven't you? Delivered, I want it! Not that festive mush 'er in there's doing! I want a pizza from that organic place, with none of them chemicals! Go and fetch me one!'

Joey just stands there, turning his key in the lock of the car again and again. Grandad's bottomless stomach is irking him right now, and it doesn't matter that he hasn't seen him for several weeks, and has missed him sorely. All he can see in front of him is his own anger.

Martina, thankfully, has a cooler head, and saves his skin by acting on his behalf.

'Merry Christmas, Grandad, love,' she says, stepping up and giving him a kiss.

Grandad peers at her. 'Oh, aye, it's you. Martin. You're gettin' very fat, aren't you? Being better fed than I am, that's for certain.'

'I'm pregnant, Grandad,' Martina reminds him, sighing affectionately.

'Oh, are you?' he asks, despite the fact that they've had this conversation every time they've met for the past few months. 'Well, that's very nice, then.'

'Merry Christmas, son,' Joey finally finds his manners and comes forward to clasp the old man in a hug. Grandad's shaky hand rests against his back, and Joey finds himself thinking sadly about his grandfather's slowly growing memory problem. It's been an uphill battle for his Mam, he's been told- he's beginning not to recognise anyone on first sight- perhaps Joey should start saving towards a good doctor, see if anything can be done. But then his mind twists and writhes and sets off in a new direction, thinking instead about his bloody solicitor's apparent memory problem, not even thinking to remind him of something as important as Roxy's new representation and let him know of the new arrangements that would have to be made, and the resentment stirs in him again.

'Yes, yes, Merry Christmas and all that mumbo-jumbo,' says Grandad, stepping back from him and lowering his walking stick. 'No point in bloody Christmas if we've all got malnutrition before the day, is there? Roast turkey on the day itself won't mek up for bein' dead of starvation beforehand, will it?'

'I'll go and see to your lunch, son,' Joey says, clapping his shoulder gently, 'I'll go and see to it.'

He lets go, takes hold of Martina's arm and walks toward the door of Number Thirty.

* * *

**Nellie**

'Will-you-leave-those-mince-pies-_alone_, Freddie Boswell?'

Nellie moves the tray away from her husband. He ignores her warning, leans across the table and snatches another one up.

So, this is her Christmas, is it? Making several dozen pies and cakes, and having her husband and youngest son eating them faster than she can produce them? What a joy this is. And to think, she had been a whisker away from just leaving, getting away from it all. She still regrets the decision to stay behind- absolutely, fully, completely. It's duty that's making her stay, just as it's duty that's made her do everything for everyone, always. At least Billy has gone upstairs to (_finally,_ at midday) get dressed, so there's only one of them to deal with. Unfortunately, it's the more unwelcome one.

'This is nice, eh, Nellie Boswell?' Freddie says, blithely oblivious to the anger that's radiating out of her and heading in his direction. 'Just you and me…'

'And my cooking, yeees…'

'I'm not just here for the grub, you know!'

'And what are you here for, Freddie Boswell? You vanish for a good six months of the year, and now you turn up out of nowhere…'

'Not nowhere, from me _flat_…'

'Because you _know_ that this is the time of year for things like presents and extra food, none of which you deserve, and because it is traditionally a time of _peace_, _which you are determined to make sure none of us have !_'

She's shrieking now. It's the only way to actually get through to Freddie Boswell that she's actually furious, otherwise he seems to take everything she says as some sort of tease or innuendo.

'Well, if that's the way you want it,' Freddie bellows back, putting his half-eaten pie back on the tray- disgusting man that he is- and getting up, 'I'll give you your peace! You're a hard, soulless woman sometimes, Nellie Boswell- you always have been!' He grabs his hat and rams it down on his head. 'I'll be back later when you've calmed down.'

His way of saying he'll be back when she's ready to start serving him food again, no doubt.

She follows him as he storms through the parlour.

_Don't bother_, she's going to shout, _we don't want you here ruining Christmas with your selfishness and memories of that TART,_ she's going to shout, but by the time she opens her mouth the front door has opened, and someone's in the vestibule.

'Ah, good to see you, lad!' Freddie is at once happy and friendly again, as if the row never happened, 'Bright yellow as a buttercup, it is! Bright yellow!'

And then Joey's there in her living room, tall, handsome, heartbreakingly lovely Joey, Martina by his side. Nellie turns around quickly and composes her face before addressing either of them.

'Hello, there, love!' she calls across the room.

'Good to see you again, Martina,' Freddie is in the process of vigorously shaking his daughter-in-law's hand. 'Looking great, sweetheart! You're positively _glowing_, you are! Bright pink as a rose! Pink as a big, fat, watered ro-'

'I'm not _that_ fat!' Martina protests. No sense of humour, that girl. Even Nellie, angry with her husband as she is, can see that the remark was made with good feeling.

'No-one finds it a pleasant experience to see _you_ again, Freddie Boswell!' she reprimands him anyway, because she was almost rid of him, and she doesn't want him hanging around unnecessarily just because Joey has turned up.

'Look out, Joey,' Freddie says, leaning in towards Joey, 'the Missis is in one of 'er moods again! It's time I was off.'

And then, _thank the Lord_, he's on his way, calling out an obnoxious _bye!_ as he goes.

Nellie moves in to lay claim to her son, embracing him for all she's worth. Oh, but she has missed him. She wishes that they could just stay like this forever, and she could somehow absorb him back into herself, so he'd never have to leave her again. He's her pride and joy, is Joey, and she'd like nothing better than to have him back and around her always. She'd even put up with Martina's moods if it meant he'd move back in here, and he could comfort her about this whole Derek/holiday/Christmas fiasco and be there as he always used to be.

But then she remembers the shouting, and she lets go of him, knowing it's never to be. He'd resent her if she suggested that.

'Well, then,' she says, wiping her hands on her apron and trying not to feel too embarrassed, because although Joey seems to think nothing of the overly long hug, Martina is giving her a bit of a strange look, 'do you two want to bring your things upstairs? Your room's all ready for you.'

Martina thanks her in her usual, standoffish way (would it kill that girl to ever crack a smile? Nellie doesn't know how both Joey _and_ Shifty could ever have fallen for her, she really doesn't) and starts to lug her case in the general direction of the stairs.

'No, sunshine, I'll do that,' Joey's at her side in a flash, taking it from her and very tenderly laying a hand on her arm, then on her stomach. 'I'll take it. You head on up.'

Well, she may not be able to see what made Joey fall in love with Martina, but she can certainly see why Martina was inclined to fall for _him_. Such a considerate soul…then again, she might be biased.

She watches him heft Martina's bag over to the other arm, using his free hand to pick up his own, and it's then that Nellie notices it.

There's something not quite right about Joey. As soon as Martina's out of sight, any trace of happiness fades from Joey's face, and he stands before her haggard and aggrieved. It's barely perceptible- if she weren't his mother, she would probably have missed the transformation, would probably have fallen for the pathetic excuse for a smile he sends her way, as if it could wipe away the rest of his face. But Nellie has known him from the cradle and before, and something has hurt him. From the way he's interacting with her, it's not Martina. It's not the baby either, or there would have been more of a fuss than that. What, then?

She has a good mind to ask him. But why would he want to confide in her?

She's only his mother, after all.

* * *

**Adrian**

He started by doing the basic colour, and he's now in the process of flecking in the little twinkles, the little sparkles, the little bits of gold and brown and green that mesh together to make this pair of eyes uniquely Irenee's. It's the same technique he used before, and he's done them in the same shape, but last time, they hadn't resembled his wife one iota, despite the accurate choice of colours and design. He can't really tell what the result of this attempt is going to be yet. They seem okay now, here, up close, but so did the other ones, and it was only when he stepped back that their true nature, as it were, was revealed. He's not going to stop and look at the painting until they're done.

It's a foolish decision, Adrian knows- if he'd had problems earlier on and actually spotted them in time, it'd be easy to rectify them.

He's running out of time now. In between trying to keep the kids occupied, running round after them and trying to keep them from tearing each other's hair out in their boredom, eventually giving them a couple of presents early to entertain them, and answering phone calls from his family, he's been back and forth as it is, and his work on the portrait has been sporadic. He can get it finished, but that's relying on the eyes being perfect first time- if they're not, well, he's just going to have to live with whatever he comes up with, and pray and hope Irenee doesn't burst out with an _oh, it looks a bit like Carmen!_

Not that she would- she's not that sort- but she might think it, and that would be bad enough. Adrian's hands begin to shake, and he has to keep stopping and taking endless sips of hot tea to steady himself, to ensure he doesn't shiver and put a big streak of green across Irenee's face. In a bit of a hurry he may be, but he's not going to rush it and keep painting with shaky hands. He's not risking ruining the whole thing.

It's nearly lunchtime according to his watch, which means he'll be stopping again. Hopefully having a bit of food in him will give him a bit more energy, and a break will calm his nerves and allow him to return to his work with a clear head. Ah well. He'd better get downstairs and put something together.

'Boys!' he calls. No answer. He gets up off his stool and puts his brush carefully away, intending to head into their room and summon them properly for lunch.

'The door was open,' comes a voice belonging to neither Davey nor Harris nor Jimmy, and Adrian starts.

Carmen is resting one arm against the wall, one leg crossed over the other.

'Well, when I say the door was open, I mean Harris opened it for me.'

Harris can unlock the door on his own? Adrian doesn't like the sound of that- not because he would have begrudged Carmen entry, but because somehow, his three-year-old son has undone a deadbolt, and could run onto the street at any time- or worse, let anyone in. He must have pushed a chair over to be able to reach it. Adrian intends to have a talk with him later. And…maybe hide the key better.

'Whatcha doin'?' Carmen crosses the room, leaning her elbow against Adrian's shoulder and studying the painting.

'Oh, just…' he feels himself going shyly modest, as he tends to when someone asks about his work whom he hasn't already babbled about it to, 'finishing off Irenee's Christmas present. What do you think?'

'Nice, yeah.'

Is that all she can say? _Nice, yeah?_

'D'you think…' he begins, and then hesitates. 'D'you think it looks like her? Irenee, I mean?'

'Yeh,' Carmen shrugs. 'Of course it does. Why?'

Adrian looks her up and down, looks back to the picture and then sighs. 'No reason.'

'You know,' Carmen leans more heavily on him for a second, and then releases him, 'I wish I'd known about this artistic thing when you an' me were goin' out. Think of all the things we could've done- you could've done a picture o' me….posin'…' her voice drops to a whisper, '_naked…'_

Adrian hiccups.

Carmen's face turns to amusement. 'I'm just jokin', Adrian!' she thumps him unceremoniously on the back. 'You always were easy to tease, weren't ya? I remember that now.'

He swims around in the awkwardness for a couple minutes more before he manages to pull out a laugh. 'Oh. Yeah. A joke. Right.'

'Anyway,' Carmen says, 'just popped in to see if Irenee was back yet.'

'No, no, not til later, I don't think.' He sits back down on his stool. Carmen pulls up a box from the corner and perches on it, crossing her ankles and swinging them.

'So,' she says.

'Yeah,' he murmurs.

Carmen crosses her ankles the other way. Adrian picks up a brush and then puts it back down. They smile at each other. They look away.

'It's funny, isn't it?' she muses, coming up and laying a long-nailed finger against the painting, as if stroking Davey's cheek, and Adrian panics for a few seconds that she might inadvertently scratch his work. 'All the time we were together, you were itchin' for us just to talk.'

Adrian nods- that thought had occurred to him yesterday.

'And now we've got the opportunity and we can't think of anything to say.'

'Yeah,' Adrian repeats. He sighs.

'Carmen,' he begins warily, 'look, there's something that's still bothering me. The other day…what happened between us…'

'Oh, Adrian,' she groans, 'I thought I explained about that. _And_ apologised, what's more.'

'No, I know that Carmen, I just… look, I didn't intend for it to happen, all right? It wasn't meant to. And I regret it.'

Carmen takes in a breath.

'I mean, not to, er…offend you, or anything, Carmen- I, I, I, I, I just meant…'

'I know what you _meant_, Adrian.'

'And, well, as far as, er…anything goes, you know if I could undo it, I would. You see, I love Irenee.'

'I _know_, Adrian. I know. I know you do. And she is my friend, not forgetting.'

'Well, what I'm saying, Carmen…I want to be a good husband. A good father. You see? I know I can't just snap me fingers and have not done it, but I want for us to take it back. To admit once and for all that it was wrong- _wrong_, Carmen, and go about the rest of our lives leaving it behind. I haven't been able to do that yet- but oh, Carmen,' he's practically on his knees, all the guilt since the whole affair actually took place spewing and gushing out, having finally, and rather unexpectedly, found an outlet.

He's needed this- last time he tried to talk to Carmen about it, things turned out rather differently to how he'd planned, and he'd found himself worrying about her instead. And he has been worrying about Carmen, and what might become of her- but that doesn't mean his own worries have just evaporated. He still can't forgive himself, but he wants so desperately to find some sort of absolution, and being this close to finishing his painting, and to Irenee coming home, is pushing him right over the edge.

'Oh, Carmen,' he says again, 'I just wish I could erase it.'

'Adrian,' Carmen sighs, 'we can't erase it. It's one o' those thing that can't be erased, you know. We just have to…to move on, that's all. Like you said- a new start. As friends, without…well, the physical stuff. Doin' it. If you think we can.'

'I'm going to remember it for the rest of me life,' says Adrian. 'It's going to keep me on my toes every day, like a continual warning. My sanity will be forever hangin' by a thread. But…yeah. I want to move on- I think we can do this.'

They smile, tentatively at first, and then more warmly, more genuinely. Adrian feels utterly lifted.

'Well,' he stands, dusts himself off, 'I was just about to make meself and the kids some lunch- care to join us?'

'Wonderful,' says Carmen, and winks. They laugh.

'Oh, and Adrian?' she adds as they head towards the door.

'Hmm?'

She jerks a thumb in the direction of the painting. 'It does look good, you know. You've got talent.'

'Thanks,' Adrian grins. 'You know, you may not believe this, but I did give up me painting for a while. I wanted to pursue a singin' career.'

Carmen bites her lip, but he doesn't miss the little laugh that escapes.

'What happened to that, then?'

'Oh, well, I had to come to some serious decisions in my life, and…'

'You mean you were rubbish?'

'No!' Adrian says in shock. Carmen looks at him, smirking, and then they both laugh again. And Adrian can't help thinking that, though he still regrets what went on, the end result has turned out to be better than he could ever have imagined. He and Carmen are friends. They can laugh, they can joke, they can be a source of hope for one another.

Adrian turns as he reaches the doorway, allowing himself to look upon his portrait for the first time since he's redone it.

And this time, when he gazes into the eyes, it's only his wife he sees there.

* * *

**Joey**

Joey still doesn't feel quite up to a conversation- somehow, everything takes him back to that solicitor's office, to the letter that never came, and he fears that if he opens his mouth to speak tears will accompany the words. Fortunately, though, there hasn't been all that much need to. They're sitting down to lunch now, and he can keep his gob occupied with food rather than speech.

The fact that Billy, though he has a heaped plate of stew in front of him, is more interested in taking the mince pies off the dish in the middle of the table than eating his lunch, also provides distraction enough- he can quite easily concentrate on telling him off every now and then, which provides good cover and an excuse to use his unhappy voice without anyone being any the wiser.

'Billy!' he shouts as his brother takes yet another one. His Mam looks at her youngest with disapproval and then sighs.

'It's no use, Joey. There's no stoppin' 'is gob.'

Joey frowns. That's not the Mam he knows- she's not one for giving up so easily. Something's going on, he realises- something he hasn't noticed while so wrapped up in himself. She looks…incredibly tired, does his mother, and though he's seen her disillusioned with life before, she's never appeared quite as lacklustre as she does today.

He wonders if he should speak, but now isn't really the right time. Not in front of Billy. Not in front of Martina. And before he has a chance, even, Nellie fakes a smile and turns to Martina.

'How's the baby, then, love? When did they say it was due?'

'Middle o' February,' Martina replies. 'The doctor said around the fifteenth.'

'Oh, it'll come before then, love, mark my words,' Nellie says. 'You're havin' a Boswell baby- and Boswells always seem to come early. It was like that with all of mine- _and_ Billy's Francesca. Boswells don't like to be kept waiting.'

'Pushy little bastards,' Martina mutters, so only Joey can hear.

'It'll come _long_ before then,' says Billy knowledgeably, stuffing a mince pie into his mouth and talking amid shortbread crust crumbs, 'you'll probably 'ave it Christmas Day.'

'What makes you say that?'

Billy shrugs. 'It's what 'appens, innit? People 'oo are pregnant at Christmas always 'ave their babies on Christmas Day. Well, it's what 'appens on telly, anyway.'

Joey really does despair of his brother at times. 'In case you haven't noticed, son, we're not _on_ telly. This is life, not a BBC programme. And Martina's only seven and a half months- there's no way it'll come _that_ early.'

'How do _you_ know? It could be immature, couldn't it?'

'_Pre_mature, Billy,' Joey clenches one fist under the table. Billy's really getting on his nerves today. 'And I think if there were a risk of that, the doctor would have told us. Everything's goin' just as it should, she said.'

'For now,' Billy says. He picks up another pie and takes a violent bite out of it.

'It's all gonna be fine,' Joey says, lacing his tone with as much warning as he can, in the feeble hope that Billy will get the message. Martina has begun to actually pay attention to his comments, Joey's noticed out the corner of his eye, and he doesn't want his tactless brother bothering her with his ignorant worldly-wisdom.

'And what would you know? You're the only one of us who's never been through this. Mam's been through it, Aveline's been through it, Jack and Adrian 'ave seen it, and I've seen it! Roxy had already 'ad Oscar when you an' 'er…'

A sharp pain abruptly stabs Joey's chest, and he feels himself flinch as the letter in his coat pocket comes back to the forefront of his mind yet again.

Billy doesn't notice, nor does his Mam, but Martina turns her head slightly in his direction, mouth twisted in concern.

'So what do _you_ know about childbirth?' Billy ploughs ahead. 'Don't listen to anythin' _'e_ says, Martina- 'e knows nothin' about this! Now me, for instance- I've _seen_ Julie givin' birth. I've 'eard 'er screamin' in agony, as…'

_'Bil-ly!'_ Joey snaps. Martina does not need to hear one of Billy's tales of gore and woe, particularly not when her due date is getting ever nearer. She'll start showing signs of panicking about it again, and that won't do anyone any favours.

There's no deterring his brother, though.

'Sometimes,' Billy lowers his voice as he leans right in, which, in turn, makes Martina lean back a little, 'the baby's too big to get out, and what the doctors do is, they get a scalpel, and they…'

'_BILLY!' _

This time it's Joey leaping to his feet and slamming his cutlery down, and he knows it's childish, that it goes against his general image as the calm negotiator, the peace-making one, but he _cannot_ let Billy go on to give Martina a detailed description of Julie's episiotomy. He's heard the story enough times himself, and has never gotten through a rendition without a few involuntary shudders, and Aveline had been reduced to tears when Billy had recited it to her mere days before Ursula made her way into the world. Nobody in their right mind wants to hear about the mishaps of childbirth (or for that matter, any of Billy's other favourite gruesome topics of conversation)- but to be telling Martina this, when she's already in such an unstable state of mind, when nearly every moment of her pregnancy has been fraught with neuroses and doubts, well, that's just overstepping the mark. Joey had been worked up enough, what with the solicitor's letter, and the addition of Billy's tactlessness to his already tumultuous mind has made his anger bubble right over.

Billy was the only one talking, but now the whole table seems to fall silent nonetheless, six eyes covertly studying Joey. It's one of his most furious outbursts in a long time- he honestly can't ever remember shouting that loudly, even at his angriest moments.

Joey gathers himself, takes a few deep breaths, and when he speaks, his tone is more even, though still laced with his disgust at Billy's appalling lack of diplomacy.

'She doesn't want to hear it, all right?'

'I was just tryin' to warn 'er, that-'

'She- _doesn't_,' Joey repeats, pausing for emphasis, 'want-to-hear-it. _Okay_?'

'It doesn't matter 'ow old I get,' Billy mutters, folding his arms in a sulk, 'I still get treated like a child. I'm still never allowed to say anything in this 'ouse.'

Joey takes another breath to suppress his rage, and turns to look at Martina. She's got her best unconcerned face on, her usual, sarcastic mouth and heavy-lidded eyes, as if she's bored stiff by all of this, but underneath that she's gone quite pale. He puts a hand on her shoulder as he sits back down, and he can feel her shaking.

'It's okay, sweetheart,' he mutters quietly.

The meal continues in silence, the only sound the scrape of forks on plates as they attack their lunch and resolutely avoid speaking. Billy sits frowning, and then his face evolves into a thoughtful expression.

_Oh, please, no_.

'Sometimes they use forceps…' he suddenly adds, 'and they…'

Martina gets up and walks out before he can reach the end of the sentence.

They watch her head upstairs, calm and collected in her stride despite her obvious distress, and then Nellie's eyes go towards Joey.

'She's not 'andlin' this baby thing well, is she?' says Billy. Joey glares.

'Well, thank you very much, son,' he says, leaving his own seat and hastening after his wife. Over his shoulder, he sees Nellie cross herself and hears Billy call out a _'you're welcome?'_

He finds her in their room, standing by the window and peering through the Venetian blinds at the street, even though there's nothing to see.

'Martina?'

She ignores him.

'Sweetheart?' he comes up behind her, pressing his chest against her back, bending and resting his chin against her shoulder.

'Bloody Billy,' Martina mutters, staring more intently at the street below.

'Don't pay any attention to him, Martina,' Joey says, doing his best to buck her up, his own gloom momentarily forgotten. 'He's got no diplomacy, has our Billy. You know that.'

'I know, _I know_,' she says, sounding more like herself, more like the old Martina, not the prenatally unstable one that turns up so often these days, 'you think 'e's bad 'ere? You should 'ear some o' the crap he spouts at work. The amount of 'eadaches and stomach pains and earaches and the like 'e says 'e gets, you'd think he was a walkin' specimen of every ailment known to man.'

'Well there you are, you see,' Joey kisses her jaw, 'he's prone to exaggeratin'. And I was there for Francesca's birth- not in the room, mind, but waitin', and he was rattlin' on about the amazingness of it all, not how gruesome it was.'

'Mm, yeah,' says Martina, though she doesn't sound entirely convinced. She turns around to face him, and then, rather awkwardly, because Belle prevents her from standing as close to him as both of them would like, she leans right forward and presses her forehead against his sternum, letting out a frustrated breath.

'I don't need this.'

'I know, sunshine. I know you don't.'

'First _you_, and now '_im_.'

Joey pulls back. 'Me?'

Martina just raises one eyebrow pointedly. 'Don't give me that. You said you were gonna put this behind yer. You 'aven't even put one bloody ounce of effort into that.'

Joey cringes. 'Martina…'

'No. It's not good enough. You're just wallowin' in yer own self-pity- and I know where that gets yer. Believe you me,' she reaches a hand up, brushing his hair back, playing with that one stubborn strand she loves to try and push into place, 'I've been down that road more times than I want ter count. And it's not somewhere you want to be, love. Takes you nowhere.'

She kisses him then, and Joey shuts his eyes and tries to let go.

* * *

**Nellie**

What a day. What a very long…_long_ day.

Nellie can't say she blames Martina for storming off after Billy's antics- much as she doesn't like her, she feels sorry for the girl, so close to her due date and having to hear that nonsense. Billy should not be unleashed on anyone undergoing any sort of stress.

Ever.

Only problem is, once she went, Joey went up after her, and the pair haven't come down for most of the afternoon, choosing instead to stay out of the line of gob-fire and leave her to take the brunt of Billy's Billyishness alone.

And, just to put icing on the already ruined cake, Freddie has returned, and is on the sofa with his shoes off, his feet on the coffee table and the telly on. _Just_ what she wanted.

She's finding staying in the kitchen, even if it does mean having to whip up more and more Christmas repasts, is becoming her preferred course of action. When the dog wanders in, she picks it up and puts it on the table, where it sits obediently, its little nose wrinkling and sniffing but otherwise not moving.

'Just you and me in here, sweetheart,' Nellie says to it as she rolls out a strip of pastry and cuts off the bits she doesn't need, putting them in front of it to examine. 'Just the two of us, eh? Lovely, isn't it?'

Except it isn't. It isn't lovely. She's got a family out there and yet she's alone in here; she could have been alone this Christmas and yet she's got a family to take care of. Either way, she can't win. Both of them could have been good options- a family Christmas or a solitary Christmas- and yet each option makes the other bad, and so they cancel each other out. Nellie has been churned up over this for so long now that she just can't see what the point is.

What's the point of anything? Really, what is it? What's she here for? She can't even make up her mind.

She checks the clock. Just after five. Aveline should be round any minute now, ready to dump the kids on her.

No, that's being unfair. She volunteered to take care of them, after all. She offered, when she didn't have to. She chose to sacrifice her time to herself for the sake of her grandchildren. Now she's got to live with that choice.

'Maam!' And there it is. Aveline's voice enters the room before she does, clattering in on another pair of ridiculous shoes, and only just managing to stay upright with the way Ursula and Nick are pulling on her hands.

'Nan!' They shriek, letting go of their mother and sending Aveline tumbling. She sits in a fluorescent heap on the floor for a few minutes, and then grabs hold of the settee and claws her way back up.

Nellie, in the meantime, is swamped.

'Mam says we're staying here!'

'For Christmas!' Nick adds in his adorable voice, and Nellie can't help but hug them enthusiastically. It will be nice, at least, she thinks, retracting one or two of her earlier thoughts (though not all), to have children around again. Though, just like when Adrian presented her with a photo of his offspring, it reminds her that nothing will ever be the same. They aren't her children. They're Aveline's. Her children have flown the nest; she keeps forgetting. Well, not forgetting. It's always there in her mind. But she keeps disregarding it somehow.

Still. She'll make the most of it. Perhaps she can pretend she has children again. It can be a pathetic sort of consolation for all the rest of the mess her Christmas is in.

She hugs them tighter.

'Bright and colourful, the pair of 'em,' says Freddie from the sofa. 'Bright, colourful little tots, aren't they?'

Nellie glowers.

'Well, you said earlier not to do colour comparisons,' he says chirpily, 'so I didn't compare 'em to anythin', did I?'

There's no doing anything about that Freddie Boswell. He always finds a way around everything, somehow.

'And you,' he's saying to Aveline now, 'peachy and pink, aren't you?'

Nellie finds she preferred it when he _did_ actually compare the colours to something. It's as if there's half of his annoyingness missing this way, and that makes it even more infuriating somehow.

'Thanks, Dad,' Aveline gushes, and then her face goes sour. 'Though I'll be lookin' a mud-colour by tomorrow morning. I've been rushed off me feet all day helpin' out at the church, puttin' the Nativity Scene up and all, and bein' up past midnight tonight- I'll have ugly bags under me eyes- no modellin' agency will want me!'

'You're not even modelling anymore, Aveline!' Nellie says.

'Well I _might have done_,' Aveline whinges. 'If Oswald would let me…'

'No modellin' agency will want you anyway,' another unwelcome voice enters the fray, and Billy bangs the door open, back from his quick jaunt out (knowing him, he only got as far as round the block and spent the rest of the time standing there gawking at nothing). 'You're old now, Aveline, you've 'ad two babies, and…'

'Billy!' Nellie snaps.

Aveline looks like she's about to cry.

'I'd better go, Mam,' she says, staring daggers at Billy through her tears, trotting over and aiming a kiss at Nellie's cheek that misses the mark, 'tarra!' And she hastens off, sobbing loudly.

Nellie turns her attention to Billy. 'You need to learn to control your mouth!' she hisses. 'First Martina, now Aveline…'

'I just calls 'em as I sees 'em, that's all,' he seems entirely unconcerned. 'Hello Ursula.' He kisses her forehead. 'Hello Nickwit.' He pats him on the head.

And then he slopes into the kitchen with a call of _aw, hey, more pies!_

The children get to work messing around with their little suitcases and asking about where they'll be staying, and Freddie gets to work pretending to fuss over them, like he never did with his own offspring.

And Nellie is the only one who notices the brief change in Billy's countenance, and the fleeting glance he sends in the direction of his present for Francesca under the tree.

Seems like she's not the only one who feels obsolete this Christmas.

* * *

**Adrian**

It's done. It's finally finished. The painting has been finished, has more or less dried, and has been covered and stored away, lest anything happen to it. All that remains is for him to bring it out tomorrow and the rest will happen on its own. Irenee will open it, all things going well, she'll like it, and it'll get hung up somewhere, where she will always remember him and her family, and he will always remember never to be so stupid again.

Adrian is pacing now. Irenee had rung a while ago to say she was on her way home, and she should be back any minute now. All he wants now is to lay eyes on her once again, wrap his arms around her and swing her around, as he used to do when they were first courting and newly giggly round one another. Absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, he thinks. Absence, and a life-lesson.

Carmen is still here. A little while ago, that made him incredibly nervous. Would Irenee suspect anything? Wouldn't it be better for her to go home, to come back tomorrow as if she'd never been? No, that wouldn't work. One of the kids would be bound to say something- it's not that they're tactless, it's just that they're so young. And Adrian's not going to get himself into any more hot water- he's determined to make that so. She's here because Irenee invited her tomorrow, and because they're all friends now. That's the truth, and that's what he'll say.

She's sitting with the kids now, is Carmen, trying to get her head round a rather odd game they've dragged her into, the logistics of which Adrian isn't sure of either, but which involves a tea towel, a cuddly mouse and two of Adrian's hats. He smiles at the lot of them, though they're too absorbed to notice.

A key rattles in the door. Adrian stops mid-pace, but instead of going to greet his wife, as he should do, he runs into the vestibule and frantically checks his appearance in the mirror, straightening his collar, smoothing his hair down, dusting himself off.

'Whatcha doin' all that for?'

Two hands snake around his waist. Adrian turns himself around, and there she stands, gold and glowing in the dim evening light, her eyes shimmering and warm and lovely. No wonder he had trouble painting them, he thinks. No art, poetry or song could do those beautiful orbs justice.

'Well,' he says, trying to sound a bit suave, and probably failing, 'aren't you a sight for sore eyes?'

She grins at him, a wily, fox-like expression on her face.

'You're okay,' she teases.

And at that moment, her understated declaration of her affection, coupled with her beauty, coupled with days and days' worth of missing her clash together inside him at once. Adrian is so overwhelmed with love for her that he picks her up, spinning her on the spot as he'd wanted so desperately to do earlier, not caring if Carmen and the kids can see.

Well, the affair has definitely proven one thing. Wimp he may be, but Adrian still loves Irenee with every inch of himself.

* * *

**We're almost there now. Only one more chapter to go, and seeing as I'm going away for a week, it shan't be up until the 21st (which works out quite well, time-wise, being quite close to Christmas.) This final one aims to tie everything up (I don't know how I've successful I've been with that, but we'll see) and is full of Christmas fluff. Until then, my lovelies, have a good time. **


	12. December 25

**Final chapter, and just in time for Christmas! (Well, with a few days to spare, but I'm not actually posting on Christmas Day or anything XD) Hopefully this ties everything up. The order of POVs may switch around at one point, but I have my reasons for this ;) I shall be back with new fics in the New Year- more Joetina, of course, though I do intend to try some new things, including some Billy/Connie. **

**There's also a slight, slight, _slight_ Keeping Up Appearances reference, though it's probably not noticeable. **

**And I had to address this silly Martina/Oswald thing from the Christmas special, even if just briefly. I was so annoyed by it.**

* * *

**December 25****th**

**Joey**

Joey does sleep, but that's only because the rest of his evening is taken up with racing around after Aveline's children, trying to give his poor Mam a bit of a break. He'd been exhausted when he finally dragged himself back upstairs, worn down by exertion and his grief, and he'd collapsed into bed beside an already asleep Martina and partaken of a dreamless and utterly unsatisfying slumber.

When he wakes up, it's still dark, as was expected, but the clock reveals that it's still only six. And despite Ursula and Nick's promises that they'd be up and stuck into presents the moment it was morning (they'll keep their word on that, too, knowing them) Joey has no intention of going anywhere or doing anything just yet. He'll just lie here for a while, thinking. He wonders what Oscar's doing now. He was always one for getting up early, too, and the one Christmas they'd all shared he'd come in to Joey and Roxy and a horrendously ungodly hour, bouncing on their bed until they'd relented and allowed him to open his stocking.

_Aw, hey, son, why doesn't it work out for us?_ he thinks, feebly hoping he can somehow project his mental messages to London. _I'm sorry I can't be there with you- or give you anythin'. But I hope you're happy, Oscar, whatever you're doin'._

He sighs, causing a bit of the bedsheet that's come up near his mouth to flutter.

Something moves through the darkness, and a hand finds its way to his face, moving gently over his jawline and across his cheek.

'I didn't know you were awake.'

Martina curls closer, nudging his shoulder with her forehead and pressing a kiss to it.

'Merry Christmas,' she mutters, her breath tickling his neck, and Joey kisses her hair in response and turns onto his side, facing her and wrapping his arms around her.

_Merry Christmas_. Merry Christmas indeed. What a Christmas this is going to be.

He's brought it all on himself, of course, but Joey can't stop the bitterness from clouding his system. He should have let it be, shouldn't have tried to chase up Oscar.

'You're thinkin' about him again, aren't yer?'

'Can you read my thoughts now?' he teases. 'Is this some sort of new DSS mind-readin' technology you've got?'

She sees right through (well, not literally, considering it's still pitch black) his pitiful go at being pleasant.

'Joey.'

'All right, sweetheart. You win. Yes, I was thinkin' about Oscar. All right?'

Martina makes an _oh_ noise.

'Look, I'm sorry, Martina. I know I shouldn't be dwellin' on it, I know it's Christmas, I know I should be there for me fam-i-ly, I just…it's just disappointin', that's all.'

'Mhm.'

Joey wonders if that's the extent of her sympathy. He doesn't expect more from her, and she's gone quiet, so…

'Joey,' she whispers after a couple of minutes' silence. 'C'mere.'

He doesn't know how he's supposed to come any closer than he is, but Martina makes her intention fairly clear when she takes one of his hands in hers and moves it to rest on her stomach.

For a moment all he can feel is his own pulse, vibrating through his fingertips. And then, to his surprise, something from the inside seems to claw and clench at him, and with a tremendous heave, the baby shifts right around, seemingly turning itself right over inside Martina.

Oh. Joey's eyes fill with tears. _Oh._

'It's like she's wakin' up too,' Martina says, her voice childish in its joy.

'Oh, Martina,' Joey says, mucus thick in his throat. 'Oh, Annabelle. Oh, Martina, I just…I'm so sorry, sweetheart! What an idiot I've been, thinkin' about all this when…'

'No,' Martina cuts him off. 'You're not an idiot, love. I do know how you feel about Oscar.' She takes the hand that's busy rubbing her belly and moves it up so she can kiss it.

'Don't forget, I've 'ad a lot o' disappointments in me life.' Understatement of the century, from what Joey can gather. 'And I've learned somethin', Joey. It took me a long time ter work it out- and before I did, I was miserable nearly all the time.' A pause. 'You can testify to that-you've seen me at work enough times. But, Joey, eventually I realised that if you concentrate on what you don't 'ave, you're never gonna be 'appy. Never.'

She moves his hand back down to her stomach, presses it against the baby.

'Concentrate on what you 'ave.'

Joey smiles, without even needing to put the effort in. She's right, of course, bloody perceptive little thing. He's been wasting so much time fretting about Oscar, and a situation that can't be changed, that he hasn't spent nearly enough time rejoicing. He's got a wonderful wife, and an undoubtedly wonderful baby on the way, and his Christmas should be about that. There have been plenty of opportunities to mourn the loss of Oscar, but this should be a time for celebrating Annabelle, for celebrating new beginnings.

He buries his face in her neck, smiling even more broadly.

'And when did you work out that little piece o' wisdom?' It certainly wasn't when they first got together- Joey's memory is of a bitterly disappointed woman, thoroughly let down by life, wary of commitment to him lest it end in another setback.

'I think,' Martina says, 'it might've been after I married yer.' The covers rustle as she sits up. 'It dawned on me one day that you weren't goin' anywhere.'

'I told you I wouldn't.' Joey sits up too, aiming a kiss at her through the darkness. He gets her chin instead of her mouth, but no matter.

'Yeah, but I didn't believe yer, did I?' She hums out a laugh, and kisses him, hitting her target perfectly and making Joey's attempt feel a tad inadequate.

'Why, Martina,' he says in retaliation, 'you didn't trust me? What sort o' man d'you think I am?'

'I know _exactly _what sort o' man you are, Joey Boswell. You're a con-man and a cheat…'

Joey can't help but silence her with his mouth.

'…and not a bad kisser, either,' she mutters when he draws away.

'Not bad? I'll have you know, Little Miss Frosty, that…'

'Oh, let's not start all that again, Joey,' Martina says, her suddenly serious voice cutting through the jesting like a knife through butter, 'me point was that it's Christmas, and you've got a lot ter celebrate, even if you don't get to send a card through to Oscar.'

'I know, sweetheart, I know. You've got this dreadful habit of bein' right, you have. It's puttin' me to shame.'

'Oh, _good_.'

They lay in silence, wrapped in each other's arms, Joey alternating between stroking Martina's hair and reaching down to feel the baby again. That's it, he decides. He's going to forget about this thing for now- he can start thinking about it again when the legal proceedings to contact Roxy's solicitor start up. Until then, he's got plenty to be going on with- he's got his family today, and Belle's coming soon- no point mooching around.

He's Joey, he's the eldest Boswell, one of the heads of the family, a source of strength and joy, and he's going to go downstairs later and act like it. No more being pathetic when there's really no point. The drizzling rain that's been a permanent fixture over Joey's mood these past few days dissipates, and he allows himself, for the first time since he started preparing for Christmas, to properly relax.

'But you know,' he says conversationally, bright enough now to fully engage in a bit of joking around, 'you always used to tell me off for takin' a long, roundabout way to get to the point of what I was sayin'.'

'I'm gonna smack you in a minute.'

Joey laughs.

* * *

**Nellie**

Christmas morning dawns in all its glory, with birds twittering, herald angels singing, and Grandad shouting 'piss off!' at the neighbourhood children as they charge up and down the street on their new bikes. But it's none of those things that wake Nellie- it's a soft, snuffly little nose running up and down her cheek.

'Get that moustache of yours out of my face, Freddie Boswell,' Nellie mutters as something soft brushes her ear, and then shakes her head in mirth as she opens her eyes and realises it isn't her husband after all, but her lover's (can she call Derek her lover? It's not as if they ever…actually…well…) dog, wagging its stumpy little tail and yipping happily. Nellie touches its ears.

'Well, then, love,' she says, 'Christmas Day, eh?' She'd expected to awaken feeling rested, strangely calm and happy or miserable, or some odd combination of the three, but she awakes with a sense of apathy. Well, that's new. Perhaps she's burned out all her emotions. She can no longer feel anymore.

A knock comes on the door.

'Nan! Nan?'

Ah, it's the children. Right, then. Better get a smile out.

She manages to get herself into a sitting position, move the dog to her left side and take a few breaths before her door is flung almost off its hinges and the invasion takes place.

'Nan!' Ursula shrieks, thumping across the floor with her presents in her arms. Nick follows, his excited cry almost as loud, dragging his own stocking behind him. He's only a tiny thing- it's a visible struggle for him to get the pillow-sized sock across the room, and every so often a little wrapped parcel drops out and he stops to retrieve it. Nellie admits to herself she might have gone a little bit overboard with her last-minute shopping, has spoiled them immensely with the amount of things she's bought, but she couldn't resist. Aveline and Oswald are good parents (well, Oswald is, anyway. She hates to admit it, but Aveline could be a far better mother if she'd pay more attention to her children's needs and spend less time on her own body) but they are somewhat lacking in the attention they give their offspring. Oswald does try, goes to all Ursula's school events and drives them everywhere, but he's a damp Proddy- how much love is someone like _that_ capable of giving? And what with Aveline trying to push Ursula into modelling, and Oswald trying to make Nick into a more serious character, they're being forced to become little adults far too soon. Nellie intends to do what she can to reverse that, or at the very least let them feel for a little while like they can have a proper childhood.

Nellie looks on with a mild smugness as her grandchildren delight in their gifts, immediately trying to rip plastic toys out of their packaging and set them up all over her bed. Much better than children's-sized miniskirts and kitten-heels, and a new Proddy prayer-book every single year. These are things they can appreciate, and though she spent far more money than she should have, at least she's sure it hasn't been wasted. They may not understand just how many sacrifices their grandmother has to make, but Ursula and Nick do appreciate what she gives them, at any rate. She watches, half a smile on her face, as they fling the empty packages and bits of wrapping paper aside and get stuck into their new toys, running them over her duvet, over her legs and back down again, immersed in a way only youngsters ever can be.

'Mam! Mam!' More footsteps sound, not the sweet little patters of the kids, but a heavier thundering which rolls toward her bedroom. 'Maaaaaaaam!'

Joey and Jack crash through the door, the former clad in silk pyjamas and somehow making falling over his brother look stylish, the latter tumbling in, a mess in his crinkled flannel. They collapse on her bed, causing the children to leap out the way, giggling and squealing.

They've played the same joke on her since they were thirteen and eleven- what started out as a make-fun of the way their younger siblings still ran into her on Christmas morning has become a Christmas tradition, and, right up until Jack first moved in with Leonora and Joey got married the first time, they kept on doing it. Nellie had grown to love the antic as much as the more serious, more intentionally heartwarming aspects of Christmas, and to see it now brings a little snippet of joy to her heart.

Joey and Jack, after a few amusing moments, manage to untangle themselves from each other and organise themselves into a more orderly position, coming round to sit by her sides and resting their arms around her shoulders.

'Eh!' says Ursula, shoving playfully at Joey. 'Uncle Jo-_ey_! _I_ was sittin' next to Nan!'

Her uncle grins at her. 'Ah, yes, but you see, the most honourable seats in the…er, bed, next to your Nan, go to the most important people in the house.' He winks.

'But _I'm_ important!' Ursula insists, sounding uncannily like Aveline. 'Mam says I've got style!'

'So have I, sunshine,' says Joey, patting her head. 'So have I.'

'And…and I've got grace as well!'

'So have I, sunshine,' says Joey.

'And… I'm the oldest in my family!'

'So am I,' says Joey.

'If you're mean to me,' Ursula says, sticking her little nose in the air, 'I'll tell Aunt Martina, and she'll tell you off!'

'Ah, you're a bit late on that one, sweetheart. Aunt Martina has already told me off today.' He seems quite bright and happy, despite this fact.

'Well…she can always tell you off again, can't she?'

'Okay, okay.' Joey shuffles aside, and lets her climb under his arm and snuggle up closer. She's squashing Nellie's arm into a funny position now, but Nellie finds she doesn't mind. She's being fought over. It's only a joke, but she's being fought over all the same.

Ursula, triumphant and letting it show on her face, tucks her legs in closer and pulls one of her new dolls towards her, contenting herself with brushing its hair and poking Joey in the arm with its leg while doing so.

Joey pretends to wince in pain, and then he looks up, raising a finger dramatically as if he's only just thought of something.

'Oh dear me,' he says, looking down at his hands. 'Oh dearie, dearie me.'

'What?' Ursula stops what she's doing.

'_Well_,' Joey says with a theatrical sigh, 'it's just that children who stay in bed all day on Christmas don't get to see what's waitin' under the tree for them, and of course, you know, if Father Christmas thinks that his presents 'aven't been opened by a certain time, well, he might just take 'em home again…'

'I'm getting up!' Ursula squeaks, scrambling out of the bed and climbing over Joey. 'I'm gonna go downstairs _right now!_'

'Wait for _me_!' cries Nick, and with movements as quick and agile as a cartoon superhero the two of them have snatched up all their presents and their now empty stockings, bundled the whole lot into their arms and are running off down the passage with them.

Joey smirks. 'Check and mate, cleverchops,' he murmurs.

Nellie can't help but smile at him. He's always had a way with children, has Joey, even since he was a small child himself and started changing and feeding his younger siblings when she was too frazzled to handle them. He's going to make a wonderful father. Just as he was always a wonderful big brother, and a wonderful son, before…

No, no. She shan't think about that just now. She'll start to cry in front of her two eldest sons, and that she can't be doing with at half past seven in the morning on Christmas Day.

'Well, then, Mam,' Joey says, taking back the spot he'd been pushed out of by his niece, 'just us, eh?'

'Us and that dog,' Jack adds. 'Looks like it's gonna pee on the wardrobe.'

Nellie's head darts in the direction of her cupboard. Sure enough, Derek's dog has gotten down off the bed, and is eyeing up the piece of furniture in a rather suspicious manner.

'You stay away from that!' she shouts in its direction. It makes a little rumbling noise and flops onto the floor.

'If our Ryan was like that dog,' Jack says, 'I'd have a much easier time as a father.'

'If…' Joey begins, and then changes his mind.

'Anyway,' Jack yawns and heaves himself into a standing position, 'speakin' o' Ryan, Leonora'll be wonderin' where I am. I'd better head back over the road- see ya later today, Mam.' He lunges in to kiss her on the cheek before ambling in the direction of the doorway.

'Oh, Mam, yeah, I almost forgot,' he shoves his hand into the breast pocket of his pyjamas, pulling out a battered, worse-for-wear envelope. 'I brought this round- few months back some fella asked me to give it to yer Christmas Day…dunno wha' it is but there's summat heavy inside, so, er…here.' He awkwardly places the wreck of an envelope in her waiting palm and goes off without another word.

Nellie stares wordlessly at it. She'd recognise that handwriting anywhere- she's read enough letters scribbled in that spiky script, she's envisioned the voice connected to them while she's been reading them, she's dreamed of the face connected to the voice. That writing reminds her of- _is - _ Derek.

Her hand trembles so much that the letter nearly flutters out of her grasp.

'Mam,' Joey says quietly.

'Well,' Nellie says, shoving the envelope in her dressing gown pocket, 'I suppose I'd better get up, hadn't I? Got to get those children ready for when Oswald comes to pick them up, and dressed for Mass, and…' her speech is accelerating, and she has a go getting up, tangling herself in her sheets.

'Mam.' Joey's eyes are brimming with concern. 'Are you okay?'

Nellie doesn't want to look at him, to see him like this. It hurts too much right now.

'Yes, I…I…of course I'm all right, love,' she stammers. 'Perfectly all right, why wouldn't I be…'

'Mam.' The same, steady tone. His hand comes up to her shoulder. 'Do you want to talk about anythin'?'

Oh, she's been wishing he'd say that. She's been wishing he would ask her about Derek, and she could tell him all about it, coupled with her fears of being obsolete, unwanted. But she hadn't dared, had tried to talk herself out of it.

It's all being laid out in front of her now, in her reach, so easy to take, to grasp. But something holds her back.

'Not….not now, love.' She feels a tear prick. If she tries now, she'll just sob, and that won't help matters any. She turns to Joey to shoo him away, but when her eyes lock with his, she can't do it. Joey, just like in the days of yore, is holding out an arm to her, is watching her with love pooling in his eyes, and in an instant it's thirteen years ago, Freddie has just left her and Joey's sitting by her bedside, drying her tears and telling her they'll get through it somehow.

Before she knows what she's doing, she's got her head on her son's shoulder and is breathing in the strong musk of his cologne.

'Oh, Joey,' she murmurs, 'oh, Joey…'

'It's okay, Mam. I'm here.' He leans in and kisses her forehead. 'I'm here. You can talk any time you're ready, okay?'

Nellie takes a few deep breaths, calming herself. She can talk to Joey about it. _She can talk to Joey about it_. It's too overwhelmingly wonderful to be true. She opens her gob, but all she can get out is _oh, Joey, oh, Joey_ again and again. She swallows and wrenches herself from his grasp, remembering her dignity, remembering her duties.

'I can't now, love. I've got to get Ursula and Nick sorted, and we've got Mass to go to and I've got lunch to prepare…'

'That's okay,' he rubs her back, 'that's fine, Mam. We'll do all that. Just don't wear yourself out- and if you like, we'll talk after lunch, when it's all quiet. Would that suit?'

Nellie is so overwhelmed with gratitude she can't do more than nod her head.

Joey puts his arm back around her. 'Okay, then. That's what we'll do.'

Nellie prepares to bask in the happiness that is, for the first time in months, starting to tingle inside her.

'Mam! The light bulb in me room's gone! I stubbed me toe!' Billy blunders in, hopping about on one leg and waving a big toe, poking out through a hole in his sock, at the two of them. 'Look at it, Mam! It's all red and swollen!'

And that's another lovely moment ruined. She sighs, feeling Joey do the same.

'That's tragic, son, really awful,' Joey says unenthusiastically. He gets off the bed, pushing Billy out of the way. 'Ah…I'll just go and see to the kids.'

Billy continues to jump around for a while after Joey has left, and Nellie thinks that if she tried to open her letter from Derek now, he probably wouldn't even bat an eyelid.

But somehow, reading it while her youngest child is knocking down the furniture yelling about an injured appendage doesn't seem like quite the right moment.

She leaves it in her pocket.

* * *

**Adrian**

Adrian has been lying still for his moment, eyes open but not making a sound, just taking in the tranquillity of everything- the quiet outside, the faint patter of rain, the gentle hum of Irenee's breathing next to him and the slender fingers of her left hand twitching against his chest.

The kids are probably awake already, Adrian thinks, tearing into their gifts before he's up and ready to start taking pictures and breaking up squabbles, but he can't bear to move yet and break whatever lovely spell he's under. This moment couldn't be more perfect. Songs would fall short of describing it. All the colours in all the paintings in all the world could not do it justice. Poetry would be pointless. He's just…happy.

If he tilts his chin just so, he can see Irenee's engagement ring- a little out of focus, but still, it's there- bringing back to him all the joy of the day she came downstairs, having finally decided to wear it, and beneath that, her wedding ring reminds him that she's his, and she's there forever, and he would be an idiot to do anything to lose her.

Everything seems to have worked out, and for the better. He's got a new friend, he's got a second chance – and this time, there will be no screwing it up. This time, he'll be the perfect husband.

'Hello, you.'

Adrian moves his chin slightly to see Irenee, head raised from the pillow, her eyes twinkling and her teeth flashing as she grins.

'Oh. You're up.' He leans down to kiss her.

'Don't sound so disappointed!'

'No, no, I'm not! I was just thinking.'

'What about?'

'Oh, wondrous things. You. Christmas. The universe. The whole universe, Irenee.'

'So what were you thinkin' about when I was away? What'd you get up to?'

_If only you knew, Irenee. If only you knew._ Actually, no, scratch that. Adrian doesn't want her to know.

'Oh, just the usual, you know. Missed you, had Mam over, taught the boys a new word…'

'Yeh? What word was that, then?'

' 'Twas.'

Irenee raises her eyebrows, and rightly so. '_'Twas?_ You've not been readin' em more dopey poetry, have you?_'_

'Only the Night Before Christmas!' Adrian protests.

Irenee giggles and lays back down. Adrian thinks about leaning over her, kissing that laughing face and then locking the bedroom door, but there's something he wants to do before Carmen gets here. Instead of going for her lips, he reaches for her hand instead.

'Come on,' he whispers. 'I want to show you something.'

Irenee gives him a questioning look, but puts up no resistance as he takes her by the wrist and pulls her up and out of the bed.

They tiptoe down the hall, snorting out little laughs like children, the Christmas atmosphere taking hold of them like a bout of 'flu. Adrian hesitates in front of the boys' doorway, but no sound emanates from within their room- they must either still be asleep or be contentedly busy with their stockings, and so he doesn't give them too much thought. This is more pressing.

He leads Irenee to the next door, pushes it open and guides her inside, to where the portrait is waiting, covered in a sheet.

'What's that?'

'Why don't you…' he wants to say _unveil_, but that might give the surprise away a little too soon, 'do the honours? Er, open it?'

Irenee shrugs. 'Okay.'

Adrian stands back as she tugs the cover off, clasping his hands together and holding his breath.

His wife is silent, staring up at the enormous picture, eyes travelling up and down it, and he scans her for some sort of reaction, his muscles all clenching together.

In this light it doesn't look too bad either- much better than the Carmen-haunted first attempt, though now it's the moment of truth, the grand unveiling, and it's actually sitting in front of Irenee, all the faults stand exposed to Adrian. He would do this brush stroke better next time, he'd change the angle of that head, make the light fall this way over that face, and the more he looks at it, the more he wants to shove the sheet back up and beg Irenee to pretend she hasn't seen it.

'Adrian.'

He can tell nothing from her voice. That hushed tone could be disappointment, it could be amazement, it could be boredom. They all sound similar, coming from Irenee's mouth.

'Yeah?' he rasps.

'It's…' she walks forward, running a finger along her own face. 'It's beautiful.'

'It's you,' he says stupidly. 'And the kids.'

'Yeah. I know. I can see.'

'What I mean to say is,' Adrian closes the gap between them, 'it's a…a symbol of our relationship. It's us.' He gulps after those words leave his mouth- that might not have been the right thing to say. Adrian remembers all too well that when he proposed to her, giving her a ring to signify him, Irenee had been furious. But this, he thinks, this is different- it should be, at any rate- it's a completely different situation, it's…

Irenee seals his mouth over with a kiss before he can say anything, effectively cutting off both his train of thought and the oxygen supply to his brain. Adrian wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground and holding her bridal-style. This kiss, this unveiling of the painting, he decides, is the true beginning of the new start he's making, a consummation of his decision to redo this marriage and put his all in. He bathes in the glorious joy of it, letting his spirits lift and soar.

'Makes me a bit guilty,' Irenee says, pulling back with a pop of her lips.

Adrian's forehead creases. 'Guilty? What for?'

'For your present,' Irenee says, letting herself down from his arms and running from the room. Adrian moves to follow her but she's back before he can get to the doorway, out of breath and holding a small wrapped package out towards him.

'Here.'

Adrian takes it, a grin on his face. Irene wags a finger at him.

'Don't go gettin' all excited. It's not that much.'

'Aw, Irenee,' he says, tearing at the Sellotape, 'I'm sure it'll be lovely.'

He prises the tape free from the paper and pulls it off, his hand connecting with something woolly and soft.

'Oh,' he says, removing the contents and holding them up. 'Irenee. Thanks!'

Irenee smiles cheekily. 'You see that pair of socks I bought you, Adrian? That pair of socks is also us.'

And they fall into each other's arms, snickering.

* * *

**Joey**

Joey hesitates whenever he passes Nellie that morning, smiling or touching her lightly to remind her he's there. What a daft pillock he's been- this was what he'd promised himself, after his divorce, he'd never do again. He'd vowed never to cast aside his love for and duty to the family again- but by moping around being bitter, he's been blinded to so much.

His Mam's been hurting about something, and he hasn't even been there for her. Adrian, he remembers now, has been fretting and beating himself up, and he's barely been there for _him_ over this past week or so. He's going to have to phone him later, at least a _token_ call to see how he's going. He can do that much, at least.

And he hasn't been there for his wife and baby. Martina has been remarkably understanding about the whole thing, considering that, on the whole, she's one of the most insecure people he's ever met, but Joey knows her well enough to know that despite whatever mask she might don, part of her is probably hurting about this. And Belle, well…he may have missed some beautiful moments, some adorable kicks, some joyous little things to remember all his livelong days, because he was too preoccupied. Well, no more. He's going to be more attentive to those around him, just as he used to be. He can't deny himself any longer- he's the eldest Boswell, he's selfless and caring to those he loves, and he can't be anything else. What's more, he's not going to.

They're all sitting round the parlour now, Ursula and Nick opening one or two of their under-the-tree presents before they go home. Joey sits beside Martina on the sofa, one arm round her and the other reaching out to clasp Nellie's hand, off-handedly observing the pair as he thinks on all of this.

Ursula, despite her determination to snatch up every present and look at the label before letting Nick touch a single one, still somehow has time to spare to shoot glares in Joey's direction, along with refrains of _see, the presents didn't disappear!_ and Joey conceals a laugh, wondering briefly whether Belle will be this obstinate. Likely, given who her parents are.

'Aunty Martina,' says Nick, tiring of waiting for his turn near the tree and wandering over. 'Can I touch the baby again?'

Joey sees Martina sigh, then smirk.

'Go on, then.' She leans back on the sofa, pushing her stomach forward. Joey turns his head away briefly to chortle at her martyrdom. Being an expectant mother hasn't made her lose her woe-is-me attitude, though Joey can detect far more hints of jest in her gloomy statements these days than seriousness. And somehow, despite the fact that she doesn't change her tone of voice _that_ much, children seem to instinctively know when she's playing, and when it's safe to approach and annoy her, and when she's not, and it isn't. Well, the ones in his family seem to, anyway (though they tend to push the limit a bit at times.)

Nick's face lights up as he rubs her belly.

'What's it doing?' he asks, beaming at her.

'Wishin' you Merry Christmas, love,' she replies. 'Wishin' you Merry Christmas.'

This time, Joey turns his head to hide a more heartfelt smile. Dragon or not, she'll make a good mother. Of that he's sure. She might pretend not to think much of them, but Martina secretly likes kids, and no-one, least of all him, can deny that when they witness her around them. The change in her demeanour is all but undetectable- just the tiniest dash more friendliness and cooperation, but it is there, and it somehow alters her whole countenance.

'Anyone home?'

A rather more cultivated accent cuts through the treacle, and Oswald's head pokes round the door, followed by a scarf, a coat and then the entire man follows, slapping his hands by his sides and then holding out his arms to his offspring.

'Daddy!' Ursula shrieks, dropping the armful of Christmas presents she's hoarding and flinging herself at him with everything she's got.

'Dad, the baby said Merry Christmas!' Nick is right behind her, and no less exuberant.

'Did he now?' Oswald staggers, laden down with clingy children, and then frees one of his arms to wave at everyone else.

'So,' says Nellie. 'Service go all right, then?'

Joey can spot the disdain in the word _service_, and he's sure Oswald has picked up on it. Nonetheless, his brother-in-law does a good fist of not being bothered by it.

'Splendidly, thank you.' He nods. 'I think everyone was…rather impressed by my sermon.'

Nellie begins frantically muttering and crossing herself, and Joey feels this is a good time to intervene.

'Right then,' he says, clapping his hands together and standing. 'You two sprogs ready to go then?'

'I'm not a _sprog_,' Ursula insists, pulling herself up and striking the most dignified pose she can muster. 'I am a young _lady_.'

'Okay, then, young _lady_,' Joey swoops in, snatching her up in his arms and making her giggle, 'let's get you home, eh?'

He deposits the playfully struggling child into Oswald's waiting arms. Nick is up and running, his presents clutched to his chest.

'Wait for me! Wait for _me!_' A yet-to-be-unwrapped parcel tumbles from his precarious stack and skitters across the floor. He looks at it, pained.

Martina rolls her eyes. 'I'll 'elp yer, love.' She eases herself off the sofa and holds out her hands, allowing the lad to dump his armful of goodies on her and go back to gather the rest.

Joey sees the merry band to the door.

'Well, then,' he says with a grin as Oswald sets his daughter down, 'Merry Christmas, you lot! Give my love to our Princess, Oswald, won't you?'

'Yes, yes, of course,' Joey thinks he catches Oswald mutter something faint about _moods_ and _sulking_, but the vicar is quick to cover it up, clear his throat and offer Joey a hand to shake. 'Thank you for taking care of the children.'

He turns to Martina.

'And it was especially nice seeing you again.'

Martina tuts, sighs, shakes her head and then smirks as she hands over all Nick's presents to his father.

'Nice seein' you an' all.'

Oswald wiggles his fingers, a little twiddly wave which Martina returns, and then he's off up the street towards his car, his urchins in tow.

Joey puts one hand on each of Martina's shoulders and rotates her slowly until she's facing him.

'You're a married woman, you know, Martina.'

'I know, yeah.'

'You're the mother of me child, you know.'

'Yeah, I do know. This enormous lump down me dress has been an accurate indicator of that, funnily enough.' She puts one hand on her stomach.

Joey just narrows his eyes, and she immediately twigs.

'Jealous, are you?'

'Of Oswald? Nah, what could Oswald give you that I couldn't?'

'Well, you tell me, love.'

'I mean, all right, he's tall, and attractive- but so am I- he's got a respectable job and patience…' Joey realises he's not doing so well with this line or argument, '…but, er, he hasn't got such nice car, has he?'

'Nor such an ill-gotten one.' She's clearly enjoying this.

'Oh, Mar_tina_…'

'You've gone bright green, you 'ave,' Martina says, _tsk-tsk-_ing. She puts her hands on his face and reaches up to kiss him on the nose. 'Don't you worry yerself, sweetheart. I've got me 'eart set on you, and I'll stick with yer.' She moves her face down to kiss his mouth.

'At least until I've figured out yer secrets.'

'And I thought you already 'ad,' Joey teases back. He rests his forehead against hers, humming with amusement.

'Joey! Martina! It's nearly nine o'clock! We going to be late for Mass!' comes his Mam's shrill voice, and Joey, twisting his mouth, steps back inside the house.

* * *

**Nellie**

'Go in peace to love,' Father says, 'glorifying the Lord by your life.'

'Thanks be to God,' the congregation replies, and Nellie breathes a satisfied sigh. Now _that_ was a Christmas church service worth going to. That's one thing she can say for staying at home with Aveline's kids- it means she's neatly gotten out of that damp _Proddy_ service and has scored a trip to a real, proper, spiritual Christmas Mass.

The Boswell pew is full again, too, what's more- it had stood miserably empty for the past few weeks, apart from her, a solitary figure on a long wooden bench. But now she's flanked by Joey and Billy, surrounded by her lovely boys (Jack's not here, unfortunately, and Freddie was off wandering again this morning, though that's more a blessing than a curse), with Martina on her other side, staring solemnly ahead. It's not exactly the same as it was ten years ago, but she's got a big family around her once again.

It is a wonderful feeling.

True, she'd had a few tense moments- craning her head round to look at the door, in the hope that Jack would come in and join them before the Mass actually started, putting her hand in her pocket and feeling the envelope, and having to remind herself to pay attention to the homily, wondering if Martina might burst into flames when she went up to take Communion, but apart from that, it seems to have all gone quite well.

Nellie allows herself to be ushered out of the pew first, ushering a quick prayer of thanks for everything so far as she genuflects. She lets Joey take her arm and Billy sort of clumsily grab her elbow, and in this manner they leave the church in a big clump.

The ride home, though, holds none of the pleasantness of the Mass. Nellie's thoughts, no longer occupied by the Holy Father's words of wisdom and the wonderful, warm feeling of a proper family service, now go back to Joey, to Derek and to the gift in her coat pocket.

What's she going to tell Joey, exactly? She wants to talk to him, oh, how she does- she was rejoicing over it earlier, even- but part of her despair has been about him, about something which happened between them five years ago and which she still hasn't gotten over. How can she tell him that?

She tries to ignore this problem at present, slipping her hand in her pocket and touching the envelope. Whatever Derek has given her is small and hard- metal, perhaps?- taking up only one corner of the paper. What would he have wanted to give her that was this small?

What would he have wanted to give her full stop?

And why would he entrust it to Jack, of all people? He hasn't interacted with any of her sons, as far as she knows- she's not all that sure he knew they knew about him.

Huh. All this mystery. She's never been one for coping well with mystery. Nellie prefers to know what's going on around her, unless, of course, it's a personal detail about one of her children's work. _That_ she'd rather leave unsaid, lest it be something she couldn't turn a blind eye to. Mystery where her _own_ life is concerned, however, is going a bit too far.

She ponders it the entire ride home, barely noticing that Billy's yabbering on about something and infuriating Joey, who's trying to drive without distraction. She ponders it as she pushes open the front door and Billy shoves his way in, running for the presents she'd laid out this morning and having to be shouted at from all sides that he's to wait until after Christmas dinner.

And she ponders it as she puts the finishing touches on the meal and calls them all to the table, and Freddie not only miraculously reappears, but is also the first one to take his seat.

'A multi-coloured meal, eh? A multi-coloured meal!' he trills, and Nellie rolls her eyes as she plonks a plate down in front of him and yells out to the others again.

'Aw, wow! This looks smashing!' Billy has already gotten a drumstick ripped off the turkey before she can get herself together.

'Can you move that bird a bit further down?' Joey's saying as he settles into his own chair, 'I don't want to smell its poor roasted body…'

'I can't stay for long,' Jack appears and slumps down, 'oh, and by the way, Leonora's not comin', she's stayin' at 'ome with Ryan.'

'I'm starvin', aren't I?' says Billy, in response to the glare he's getting for taking the whole dish of potatoes.

'Festive, this, isn't it?' says Freddie.

'Where's me dinner? Starvin' me, you are!' Grandad's voice enters the fray as he totters into the house.

It takes all of Nellie's willpower not to bury her face in her hands. _And so it begins_.

* * *

**Adrian**

'Carmen. Hello.' Adrian holds the door wide open, an embarrassing sort of smile on his face. 'Come in.'

Carmen's mouth quirks at his stilted pose. She pats his elbow as she struts into the house, offering him a _wonderful to see you_ and chuckling as he blanches. She'll be teasing him about that for years to come, he knows it. Adrian feels a touch of the old neurosis coming back, but as soon as it begins to rise, he looks down at his feet, at the thin stripe of red wool visible between his trousers and his shoes.

_This pair of socks_, Irenee had said, _is us_, and they are, they truly are. They may seem a bit plain and simple, the way their marriage seems to run most of the time, without a great deal of anything fancy, but they match up nonetheless, they're warm and comfy, and they've got a thick lining. It hadn't been a ginormous present his wife had given him, nor a costly nor particularly sentimental one, but Adrian thinks nothing could have been more perfect right now. He'll keep them as long as he lives.

The little traces of doubt having vanished, Adrian greets Carmen warmly, kissing her on the cheek and feeling nothing, ushering her through into the living room and delighting in the fact that the kids immediately jump on their 'Aunt Carmen' and drag her over to Irenee.

'Aunt Carmen, 'twas the night before Christmas last night!'

'Yeah, 'twas!' It seems they're not getting over their shiny new word any time soon.

Adrian looks on as Jimmy and Harris, each clutching tightly to one of her long-nailed hands, manoeuvre her over to their mother. Carmen and Irenee kiss each other on both cheeks, and he feels a strange, unexpected surge of pride. Somehow, Adrian has turned one of the most terrible situations in his life- and that's saying something, when nearly every day some part of him is hanging by a thread and despairing about something or other- into something joyful, and what he sees before him warms his heart- a cherished friend (though she hasn't been that much cherished, nor that much of a friend, up 'til now) and his beloved wife, smiling and enjoying Christmas.

'I've got a present for you,' Carmen says, pulling out of Irenee's friendly embrace to look in Adrian's direction. 'Well, for both of yer- for 'avin' me, you know.'

She retrieves a package from the enormous, bottomless pit of a handbag she carries around with her, holding it out first to Adrian, then, when he's too stunned to take it, to Irenee.

Adrian realises, as his wife expertly removes the packaging without so much as ripping the paper once, that he's holding a breath. Why, exactly? He shouldn't feel anything abnormal about receiving a Christmas present from her- especially since they've got one for her and all- but he does, somewhat. It could be, perhaps, that he remembers all too well what Carmen got him for Christmas back in 1987- something he was too ashamed to show the family, lest Nellie had him in Confession for the rest of his life- and that, even though he knows they should have let go of all that, he's still half-expecting something humiliating and highly inappropriate to pop out of that wrapping paper.

Irenee gives him an odd look as she unwraps. She reaches her fingers into the packaging, and Adrian can't help but shut his eyes.

'Aw, thanks love!'

Adrian opens them again.

'Adrian- look what she's got us!'

Evidently, it can't be anything terrible, judging by the fact that Irenee's reaction is one of pleasure, not of disgust. He wills himself to focus in on the gift.

'Here y'are- here's yours, Adrian.' A slender, black box is deposited in his hand, and his entire body sighs in relief when he realises what he's been given.

A _His_ perfume sits in his hand, counterpart to the vibrant, pink box of _Hers_ Irenee now flaunts.

It's perfume. A matching set of perfume. A matching set of perfume, picked out so the two of them could go together. Nothing naughty, nothing dirty, nothing that might somehow devastatingly reveal the truth of his and Carmen's affair, not that he knows of any specific present that might do that, but still. It's perfectly harmless. Perfectly innocent.

Perfect.

'Carmen,' Adrian says, thoroughly moved- more than he should be, considering it's probably a rather cheap, last-minute present, 'thanks. I…I don't know what to say.'

She waves his gratitude away with a raised hand and a shake of her head. 'You've given me a better gift, Adrian- both of you 'ave.'

From their spot by the fireside, where they've taken to ignoring Carmen in favour of their new Christmas toys, the three children look up.

'But we haven't given you your present yet!' Jimmy protests.

'It's still under the tree!' Harris chimes in.

Carmen turns to them, crouching down so she's at their level.

'I didn't mean _that_ sort o' present,' she says, and then raises her head towards Adrian and Irenee once more. 'I meant friendship- company at Christmas. That's a wonderful present. _Wonderful_.'

It's the first time Adrian thinks he's ever heard Carmen say the word 'wonderful' without it somehow referring to sex. It jingles beautifully in his ears.

At some point, tears must have formed in his eyes, because Irenee puts a hand in his, the other coming round to catch them from his face.

'Don't get _too_ soppy, Adrian,' she teases. 'Come on, then. Let's go and 'ave lunch.'

She lets go of his hand and heads off for the kitchen, the boys immediately screeching _'food!'_ and charging off after her.

Adrian waits behind, helping Carmen back up to her feet.

'I'm glad you're here,' he says. 'I really am.'

'Thanks.'

'And I…well, er…thanks for the present as well.'

'Well, I was torn between that and a book entitled _How to Do it_,' Carmen winks, 'but I thought I'd better play it safe, eh, Adrian?'

Adrian blanches and then flushes. 'Er…yeah. Good…good choice, Carmen.'

Carmen laughs and sashays off after Irenee.

* * *

**Joey**

Once he's stopped wallowing, Joey really does manage to have a good Christmas. It's a bit like old times, really, the way they sit around the table, talking and laughing and joking, though those present have been reshuffled a little. His Mam and Dad row, as they were bound to, Billy manages to infuriate Jack, as _he_ was bound to, and the poor, defenceless turkey is picked to its bones in front of him. Still, despite the arguing and the butchery, it's everything a Christmas dinner should be, in Joey's opinion- old family and new together- his parents and some of his siblings mingling with his wife, and his unborn daughter sitting cocooned inside Martina and growing bigger and healthier on all the food.

They're slowly wading their way through the pudding, full to bursting from the rest of the repast, when the phone rings.

Billy makes a lunge for it.

'_I'll_ answer it,' Nellie says, glaring at him. 'Hello, yes?'

A short pause, as whoever is on the other line speaks, and then she thrusts the phone at Billy.

'It's for you.'

Billy looks a tad too smug as he takes the receiver.

' 'ello?' he bellows. The other person says something and Billy's face immediately breaks out into a grin.

'Francesca! Aw hey, fancy you callin' yer Dad on Christmas Day!' He holds the receiver away from his ear.

'It's Francesca!' he informs the masses, just in case they'd unfathomably missed out on hearing his already public conversation. 'She's ringin' er Dad on Christmas Day!'

'Is she _really?'_ says Martina, sarcastically enthusiastic, and Joey lightly kicks her under the table.

Billy doesn't pick up on her mocking tone, going back to his phone call and prattling for all to hear about how made up he is with getting a phone call. Joey becomes acutely aware of a little hole in his heart, torn out by the knowledge that there won't be a call on that phone for him. He swallows the bit of bile that's making its way up his throat, and reaches under the table to grasp Martina's hand. The instant his palm makes contact with her skin the bile recedes, the hole in his heart plugs and the thoughts fall back to the back of his mind, where they'll stay for the time being. He's got people he loves all around him, and he'll content himself with that for the time being.

He closes his ears to Billy's conversation, picking at the remains of his pudding and pleasing himself conjuring up images of tiny babies in Santa hats and wondering if, when Billy hangs up, he should give Adrian a quick call. He still doesn't know what his brother has done about his dilemma (knowing Adrian, the answer to that'll be nothing) and it would fit in well with his resolution to pay more attention to his family to see if there's anything he can actually do to help. And then, afterwards, he'd better tackle that talk with his Mam.

'Okay Francesca. I love you. No, I do! Don't listen to your Mam! Yeah have a good time…no, don't put Julian on! I'm 'angin' up now, Francesca.'

Billy jabs the phone and plunks it down on the table.

'I've 'ad enough o' me lunch now, Mam- are we doin' presents or what?'

Nellie looks more than a little annoyed, but Billy-isms are a frequent thing, and Joey knows full well she (as well as everyone else) is used to coping with him and his whims.

Joey sees her eyes go towards the kitchen sink, and he doesn't need to be able to read her thoughts.

'Don't worry about the washing-up, Mam,' he reassures her. 'We'll all take care of it later on- _won't we_?'

Jack, who has been edging his way towards the door as Joey's been speaking, stops mid-step. Billy and Freddie look a bit reluctant to comply.

'_Won't- we?_'

There are mutters of _yeah, yeah_ all around. His Mam moves her mouth in a silent thanks.

'Come on, then,' he jerks his head in the direction of the parlour. 'Let's go open those presents, then, eh?'

The rest of the family stand, chair legs slamming against the kitchen floor and making Nellie wince, and amble off. Joey watches them go.

'I'll, er- I'll be out in a minute, okay?' he calls after them. 'Just want to sort something out.'

He waits 'til they're all safely out of sight, picks up the phone and dials Adrian's number.

* * *

**Nellie**

'Aw, wow! Fantastic!' Billy waves his new Walkman a bit precariously over his head, and Nellie fears he'll drop it onto the floor and all the money she spent on it will be wasted.

Still, it seems like she's picked the right present. Her youngest is ecstatic.

'Yeah, you just watch it with that,' Jack warns from across the room. 'You start bein' rude with it, and it'll meet the same fate as the last one.'

'Eh- you can't go breakin' my Christmas present! I'll-'

Another row is building, Nellie can tell. She sighs.

'Eh! Eh!' Joey wanders in at just the right time to save the day. He always was good at that. 'Cut it out now- it's Christmas Day. It's a time for good will- even towards each other, okay?'

He grins, crossing over to the sofa and faux-attempting to sit in Martina's lap, earning himself a shove and an _eh, geroff !_

Joey settles for sitting beside her instead, and the festivities carry on. Nellie seems to have done well with her gift-giving- every one of the others appears delighted by what they've received- and she doesn't do too badly herself, scoring some rather lovely pieces of jewellery, silk scarves and the like. Joey ends up with mostly leather-covered or car-related gifts, as well as a DSS rulebook from his wife marked _Holiday Reading._ And Martina- well, Joey has thoroughly spoiled her, Nellie thinks with a huff. By the time the last gift has been unwrapped she's completely swamped in finery- suede gloves, coats made of cashmere and enough golden bits and pieces to melt down and make a new currency out of (and, for some reason unbeknownst to the Boswell matriarch, an enormous stack of those musical biros her eldest son is so partial to- some of which she ends up throwing at him. Nellie gives up trying to understand how their minds- or marriage- work.)

The only thing that now remains to be opened is Nellie's mysterious little gift from Derek, but she can't bring herself to do that here. Billy would be far too loud about the whole thing, and with her husband, the man that neatness forgot, sitting round with the rest of them, it probably wouldn't be a smart move.

'Ah, well,' Freddie says, yawning and stretching, looking meaningfully at the wrapping paper scattered all over the floor which will now need tidying up, 'I'd best be off then. Got me wanderin' and thinkin' to get on with, 'aven't I?'

Nellie's head snaps up. 'You mean you've got that TART to be gettin' on with, 'aven't you?' She can't help it. Old habits die hard. And she may have had Derek, but that wasn't quite the same- she never went about being a rampant tart with another man. Their relationship, if that's what it was, was above all that.

'I dread to think what you've got _her_ for Christmas,' Nellie goes on, her aggro revving up uncontrollably as it tends to do, 'a pair of light-up knickers, no doubt!'

'Oh,' Freddie growls, 'you won't leave off, will yer? You'll never leave off! Well, I'm gone!'

And gone he is, leaving the door open for the cold and who knows what insects to come streaming into the house. Nellie gets up with a grumble to shut it.

'Well,' Martina says, stretching her arms over her head, 'I'm gonna go and 'ave a lie down.'

Billy frowns. 'What d'you wanna 'ave a lie down for?'

'For laughs, love,' Martina rolls her eyes, and Billy pouts at her sarcasm.

'_Julie_ was never as immoveable as you when _she_ was pregnant!' Billy calls after her as she slowly and carefully ascends the stairs. 'She was punchin' 'oles in pictures when she was six months at least!'

'_Immobile!_' Martina yells back, the heels of her shoes disappearing from view.

'Yeah, I'd best be off,' Jack pipes up, rising and hefting his gifts over one arm. 'Leonora'll be wonderin' where I am.'

'She _knows_ where you are,' says Billy, missing the point. 'You're only over the road.'

Jack boffs him on the head with one of his new slippers as he leaves.

The room has cleared pretty quickly, but there's still one more unwelcome presence to get rid of before Nellie can have a proper chat with Joey. She folds her hands in her lap and looks at Billy.

'Why don't you go and lie down as well, Billy?'

'Eh? Why? I'm not tired!' He smiles, nodding his head like an ostrich. 'I'm gonna try out me new Walkman now Jack's gone!'

Nellie and Joey exchange glances. There's no hinting to that lad.

'Billy,' Joey says, coming to her rescue, 'we don't wanna disturb you with our conversation while you're tryin' to listen to music. Why don't you go and test it out in your room?'

'It's too cold up there. And hey- anyway- you won't bother me! I won't be able to hear you over the music.'

Joey raises his eyes to the ceiling. 'Did it not occur to you, son, that maybe havin' that on might disturb us?'

'So?' Billy shrugs. '_You_ lot go upstairs.'

'_Billy_,' Joey says sternly. He points in the direction of the staircase. '_Go.'_

The youngest Boswell makes a show of huffing and stomping his way there.

'And don't you go makin' a lot of noise and disturbin' Martina either!'

'I wouldn't _dare!_'

And then finally, _finally_ he's gone, and Nellie gets the moment alone with her eldest she's been aching for.

She'd expected everything to come pouring out- all her anguish, her pain, her hurt, her desire- as soon as they were alone together. She'd expected it to all click into place and begin straight away, the perfect mother-son conversation machine, cogs set in motion by their mere proximity to one another. But it doesn't seen to work like that. What ensues, in reality, is a rather uncomfortable period of nothing.

'So,' Nellie says, playing with her hair, 'what, er…what were you doing in the kitchen earlier when we were all out here?'

'Oh, that was just Adrian on the phone,' Joey laughs in that manner that leads her to suspect he's keeping yet another thing from her.

'Oh- how is he?'

'Fine, great…' Joey crosses his legs. 'They've got Carmen over for Christmas dinner, you know.'

What on earth is her son playing at?

'Carmen? _Carmen_- that little TART, what's she doin' back in Adrian's life- oh, Joey, you don't think…'

'I don't think anything, Mam. She's a friend of Irenee's, and they're doin' her a favour, that's all. Nothin' to worry about.'

'Oh.' She sits back in her chair. Joey watches her, but makes no move to actually say anything to her. He's leaving it all up to her, and, much as that frightens her, she knows she'd better get on with it and start spitting it out.

'Gave me a Christmas present, you know,' she says, beating around the bush rather than coming straight out with it, much as, apparently, Joey does to Martina down the DSS to annoy her, 'lovely, it was, Joey. A little photo in a frame- and on one side it was him and Irenee and the boys, and on the other…' she pauses, sighs. 'It was all of us.'

'Sounds great,' Joey says.

'Oh, it was, it was,' she replies, and then lets the false cheer drop from her tone and fall away. 'It made me feel old, Joey. I remember when that photograph was taken, when you were all young and happy and attached to my apron strings like…oh, I was never good at those comparisons. You'd be better askin' yer Dad. But now…everything's changed.'

'Mam, it happens.'

'Oh, I know, love, I know. And it's not that I don't want you to have families of your own- your own special people, and your children and all that. It's just sometimes I think about the olden days…and it hurts, Joey. When your baby's born you'll understand- you think you have your children around forever. You think the happy days will never end, that they're all stretched out in front of you and you have time to spare. Then one day you blink and you realise everything's passed you by.'

Joey speaks not a word, but gets up and comes over to her chair, perching on the arm so he can wrap his own arms around her.

'Aw, hey, Mam,' he says softly, 'you haven't lost us, you know. We'll always be there.'

She chokes up, but before she can get anything out he's gone on.

'And I think I do…I do know how you feel. I thought Oscar was mine- I thought I'd have him as long as I lived, and that I'd get to watch him grow up…oh, I know he wasn't actually my son, and that I missed a lot of his early childhood, what with me and Roxy always at each other's throats or separate and in different towns, but I still…I still thought Oscar and I had summat special.'

Nellie's throat clogs even more. Oscar. How could she have forgotten? Here she is, complaining about losing her children, and Joey actually _has_ lost a child- and not just in the sense that said child has grown up and gotten a life of his own. He's actually been cut off from him- all that Roxy's doing, of course. She was never a good one for Joey- he should have listened to his Mam…

A myriad of things occur to her to say, but what she ends up choosing is _I know you did, love._

Joey rests his head against hers, and they lapse into silence again, but this time it's a sweeter, more tender quiet than the awkwardness of a few minutes ago.

'This Christmas,' Nellie says at length, 'I'd planned not to be here, you know.'

'Oh?' Joey raises his head. 'Why?'

She shrugs her shoulders. 'Don't know. Well, that's not quite true, I…er…_he…_ you do know who I'm talking about when I say _he_, don't you, Joey?'

'I've got a fairly good guess, Mam. Go on.'

'Well, _he…_ and I…we were going to go away together. Just the two of us.' She hums. 'Things never work out the way they plan them, do they, Joey? The Lord Almighty has a surprise or two up His sleeve. Well, it just got me thinking- about all of you lot, about how all my children had grown up and didn't need me anymore…and I thought, well, why not, eh? Why don't I just go? You've all got your own lives to lead, you don't need your old Mam cluttering up your way, holdin' you back…'

'Look, Mam,' Joey says, 'I know where you're goin' with this, and I want to straighten somethin' out with you- okay? When I married Roxy, I said things I never meant to say. I thought I'd already explained that- no, never mind. I'll say it again. When I said you cared too much about us, and that that was worse than not carin' at all, I didn't mean it. Mam, I _love_ that you care. You've held this fam-i-ly together, and what's more, you've taught me to care. It's because of you that I learned to take care of our Jack and Billy and Adrian and Aveline- and then Roxy, Oscar, Martina and…'

Joey pauses, puts his hand to his throat as if to clear it.

'…and Annabelle.'

Nellie frowns at the unfamiliar name. 'Annabelle? Who's Annabelle? You haven't got a woman on the side, have you?'

'No, no, Mam,' Joey laughs. He gets up off the arm of the chair and takes his seat on the couch once again, angling himself to face her and capture her hands in his own. 'Annabelle is my daughter. Martina's daughter. Our baby.'

A wonderful light seems to cast itself across Nellie, a warmth spreading through her heart, as it dawns on her what Joey's saying, what knowledge he's entrusting her with.

'You mean…'

'Yes, Mam. That's right. We're 'avin' a daughter, and we've named her Annabelle.' He grins. 'We 'aven't told anyone else.'

Fireworks go off in Nellie's brain, stars bursting before her eyes. A little sceptical of all this modern ultrasound technology and finding out the sex of babies before birth she might be, but the knowledge that Joey has entrusted this wonderful secret to her far outstrips any complaints she might have had. Not only does he know, but he's told her, and not only has he told her, but he's told _her alone._

'Oh,' she says, tears coming out whether she wants them to or not. 'Oh, Joey- that's wonderful!'

She gets up to hug him and Joey leans into the embrace, his ear resting against her collarbone.

'It is, Mam. It is.' He pulls back, staring her in the eyes. 'And there's no-one I'd rather tell first than you.'

He means it. She can see in his eyes that he means it. A great hammer comes down on the hurt she was feeling towards Joey for his actions five years ago, smashing it to little pieces and pushing the remaining fragments back to the very back of her brain, where they won't trouble her for a while. Joey loves her. Joey wants her love. Joey wants her to be involved in his life, be involved in the life of her grandchild- and that beats all the Christmases in all the plush, faraway hotels in all of Creation.

'And look, Mam,' he says, 'I want you to have somethin'.' He stands again, makes his way over to where his coat rests against his stack of presents and withdraws his wallet from his pocket. 'Think of it as a Christmas present from me- no, from me _and_ Annabelle.'

He pulls out a stack of banknotes, counts out a sizeable sum and deposits it in her hand. Nellie at once starts to protest.

'Just hear me out, Mam, just hear me out. You've done so much for us- for all of us- and it's about time you had summat for yourself. So take this money and get yourself a train ticket as soon as the station opens tomorrow morning- and if it isn't open, use this for taxi fare instead, and have the drive you as far as you like. Go somewhere nice for Boxing Day, on me. I'll take care of things here for a couple of days.'

Nellie's speechless, moved beyond words, over the hills and far away. Joey has just given her the impossible- her family and her freedom, all in quick succession. How can this be?

Is it possible that she _can_ have it all, for once? Is that truly what Joey has just offered her?

'Oh, I couldn't take that,' she says, out of politeness, though every part of her achingly wants to.

Fortunately for her, Joey isn't fooled by her pretence, nor is he going to listen to it.

'Oh, go on, Mam,' he says, folding her fingers around the money and kissing her temple. 'Take it.'

He walks towards the stairs, murmuring something about going to see how Martina's doing.

'Take it,' he says again, his hand on the banister. 'And Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas, love,' Nellie says back, realising as she does so that it's the first time this year she's uttered those two words. She wouldn't have meant them earlier. She does now, and so, with a thankful, joyful heart, she utters them again.

'Merry Christmas.'

* * *

**Adrian**

The food has been polished off, the children are tired and sticky-mouthed and happy, and, for once, everything has actually worked out for him. The conversation has been all right, Jimmy, Harris and Davey have behaved themselves (well, they've done fairly well anyway, considering) and are now all snoozing face-down among a pile of new lego, little pieces stuck to their cheeks, and there has been nothing worrying from Carmen. In fact, having her here has been lovely- she and Irenee have been giggling away, and seeing his friend happy and his wife's eyes lighting up has made everything that little bit more special.

Adrian doesn't want to say the affair was a good thing to have happened to him- he'd never condone his own behaviour on that front- but he does think it's the product of some sort of divine intervention. His Mam is always reminding him that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and Adrian is certain that's true. Never had he considered today to turn out like this, but the more unexpected surprises have, funnily enough, turned out to be the better ones.

It's truly been a wonderful Christmas, in every respect.

'Ah, well,' Carmen says, checking her watch, 'I'd better be on me way- but thanks, all of yer, for today.'

Adrian sees her to the door.

'Thanks again,' Carmen repeats, her tone more heartfelt than he's ever heard it. 'It truly was great.' She leans in to kiss his cheek.

'That's all right,' he replies. 'We're friends, Carmen. We always will be.'

She's beaming as she leaves.

Adrian waits until he hears an engine start and a car rattle down the road, and then he walks back through the house with a brisk, determined stride. Carmen has gone home now, the kids are asleep, and he has an idea.

Irenee has an apron tied haphazardly round her waist, and her arms are up to their elbows in bubbles and dishwater, but he doesn't care. He grabs her by the elbow, pulling her away from the kitchen sink and kissing her.

'Come on,' he says as she blinks in surprise and struggles to get her bearings. 'Let's go upstairs.'

Irenee's jaw drops in mock-anger, but the glint in her eyes betrays her happiness and amusement.

'We-elll…' she teases, looking from him to the sink to him again, and then undoing her apron and tossing it aside. 'Okay.'

Adrian kisses her again and hoists her up into his arms.

* * *

**Joey**

Martina is an angelic sight- or rather, as much of an angelic sight as a heavily pregnant and perpetually grumpy woman can be. She sleeps serenely for once, still dressed and on top of the covers, her hands over baby Belle. Joey leans over his beautiful and formidable wife, pausing to take in her peaceful face before he reaches right in and gives her a gentle kiss.

'Hrmm.'

He hadn't intended to wake her- especially remember what had befallen him last time he disturbed her slumber- but it's a bit late to rectify that now, seeing as Martina's brow is twitching and her eyes fluttering.

He sits back as she raises her head, lightly brushing his hand over her hair.

'Time is it?' she slurs.

Joey consults his watch. 'It's not five yet.'

'Hmm. 's all right, then.' Joey assists her in sitting up and slides down next to her. Martina's still not quite awake; she lays her head against his shoulder and goes heavy again.

Joey holds her and thinks about all that's just occurred. He doesn't at all regret giving his poor Mam the necessaries to get away from it all. She's an amazing woman, he'd be a fool not to see it, and she needs some sort of reward for all she's been through of late. He'll get round to telling Martina this'll mean another night here at Kelsall Street- he'll catch her in a good mood, if he can- and she'll come around to the idea, he's sure.

But for now, he doesn't want to open up that avenue of discussion.

'Next Christmas will be better,' Joey whispers into the back of her neck. 'Just you and me and the baby, okay?'

'Mmm, yeah,' Martina mutters. 'All right.' She begins to doze again, and then all of a sudden, just as Joey is joining her in relaxing, her head jerks up.

'Oh, yeah, and you might wanna get rid o' that. It's ruinin' the atmosphere.'

She waves a hand in the direction of the windowsill, and Joey gets up and goes over to find his solicitor's letter folded and resting on top of the radio. Yes, he'd better get rid of this- it's caused him a lot of trouble this Christmas, has made him forget what matters to him.

He thinks about it for a moment, considering tearing it up and tossing it out the window, but something changes his mind. He can't see Oscar- this letter is testament to that- but it's the closest he'll get to him. He takes it back over to the bed and settles down beside Martina, slinging his arm over her to reach her stomach, holding onto his letter at the same time, so that, in a way, he's holding both his children close.

Martina snorts and shuffles a little closer, her eyelids drooping again.

And Joey lays his head against the pillow, letting everything drift away and his mind wander in the direction of sleep.

Outside the window, a few drops of rain begin to drizzle down, undoubtedly spattering his Jag along with all the other Boswell vehicles. Further out, Adrian is having some strange rendezvous with both Carmen _and_ Irenee, having sorted things out in a way Joey can't really follow, Jack is with Leonora and his son, and further out still, Aveline is probably rowing with Oswald and his Dad will be out wandering again. And way, way out in London, Oscar Hartwell is spending Christmas with his mother and a dastardly Spaniard.

But Joey puts all that to one side, thinking only of what's in here. And as he holds Martina, strokes Belle through her stomach and scrunches the letter around in his hand, he dozes off a contented man.

* * *

**Adrian**

'It was wonderful, Adrian.'

Adrian runs his hand over Irenee's shoulders and back, then back up to tangle in her hair.

'Was it?' He kisses her.

'It was, yeah.' Irenee settles down against his chest. 'Wonderful.'

'Ah,' says Adrian, his tone quite smooth and even but his mind dancing ecstatically, 'good.'

He lies still, listening to her breathing and the faint humming of the heater.

'Funny,' says Irenee.

'What?'

'My friend Carmen said you were still no good at it.'

Adrian's heart leaps, and then begins pounding violently. The blood drains from his face.

'Carmen? She? What?' is all he manages to get out.

Irenee props herself up, head tilted minxishly to one side, the tip of her tongue poking through her teeth.

'I'm joking, Adrian.'

'Oh,' he laughs, nervously at first, and then letting his relief and happiness break through and ring out.

Irenee looks at him, and then she's laughing too, and they spend the rest of the afternoon cackling and lying in each other's arms.

* * *

**Nellie**

Nellie wanders around the empty parlour, humming to herself- actually humming. There's nobody about, but that doesn't bother her anymore. She's still got her children, and for the moment they're all safely tucked away in the keep, and she's got a few minutes to finally open her gift from Derek.

First of all, though, she'd just like a look at them. She heads upstairs, tiptoeing to what once had been the boys' room.

Billy is somehow sprawled across two beds, regardless of the gap between them, one arm hanging over the edge and the other stretched out so his wrist rests on the bedside table, mouth open in a way that reminds Nellie of a bear, somewhat, though she can't think why _that_ connection has come about. His Walkman has fallen to the floor at some point, but his headphones are still clamped to his head, and she can hear the thumping of drums and the screeching of bad singing from here. She shakes her head and walks down the hall, cautiously pushing open Joey's door.

Joey has tucked himself up behind Martina and fallen asleep too, his arm draped across her waist, a slight frown on his face as he dreams, a smirk on Martina's. Nellie pauses to look at them, smiles to herself at the sight of them curled round one another, and then tiptoes out to retrieve a blanket from the airing cupboard to drape over them. _Don't want Annabelle getting cold, now, do we?_

She leans over to kiss Joey on the forehead before she proceeds, and it's as she's drawing back to unfurl the blanket that she notices something rather odd.

She'd noticed when she first came in that Joey and Martina's hands were clasped together, had thought it rather sweet, even, despite the fact she's still not sure Martina is capable of sweetness. But now she looks at them again, and Nellie notices that they're not holding hands- they've got a white piece of paper crumpled between their fingers, each one of them clutching one end of it. Her brow furrows.

She's sorely tempted to slide it out from their grasp and ascertain just what it is that both of them could be clinging onto like this, but right from her Sunday school days Nellie has had the message instilled into her that one must resist temptation. And after all, Joey's always liked to keep his secrets to himself, and if he wants her to know, he'll tell her himself. So instead she sighs, runs her hand over Joey's brow, and then unfurls the blanket and gently throws it over the pair of them, the thick fabric settling over them and covering the paper, hiding it from her sight.

* * *

The living room is odd when it's empty like this, the late afternoon quiet having settled over it, no family around to fill the silence with their exuberant shouts and their pesky little arguments, everyone somewhere else

Nellie whistles, and the dog cocks its ears and toddles over to her on its fat little legs.

'Come here, sweetheart,' she says, putting her hands gently under its stomach and lifting it onto her lap. Her little friend settles down quite happily, and Nellie pats it while she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the envelope.

Her heart begins to pound again as she considers what it might contain. She carefully sticks her finger into the corner of the envelope and tears, pulling a strip off and then holding it up and tipping the contents into her hand.

Oh. Well, fancy that. It's a tiny key. What on earth would Derek have given her a key for?

Nellie thinks back. Just two days ago, she was watching Adrian's boys all but pull her- Derek's- little dog apart, and the locket around its neck had caught her eye. She wonders if maybe, just maybe…

Only one way to find out. She pulls the dog's collar round so the locket is facing her, grasps the key firmly between her fingers and inserts it into the lock.

There's a tiny _click_. The dog startles, and flops off her lap, leaving the locket in her hand, the two oval faces slightly parted. Nellie inserts her fingernail and prises them fully apart, and a small, folded piece of paper falls out. She picks it up.

It's wafer-thin paper- it'd have to be, to fit inside a dog-collar amulet, with a faint whiff of perfume wafting up from it when Nellie holds it to her nose. Hmm.

She slowly unfolds it, her lip trembling as she takes in the words.

_My dear Nellie,_

_I fear I'm approaching the end now. My children are having more and more discreet talks with the doctors every time I go in to hospital, and, if I'm honest, I can feel it coming now. I can feel it in these tired old bones of mine. _

_But, my darling Nellie, I want you to be happy when I'm gone, the way you've made me happy these past few years. When my wife died, I thought I'd never find happiness again, but I've found it with you. I know our relationship has been a strange one, never getting past a certain stage, and I know you've always been afraid to let go of the past, but even after all that, these times we've spent together have been sheer bliss, my darling. You've been a lovely friend, and a lovely companion._

_No matter what happens, dearest Nellie, I want you to know that you are loved. You always have been. I know how hard you try, and I know how much of yourself you give to your family. Don't listen to that son of yours. Caring is the most wonderful thing you can do- and you have a wonderful talent for it. And your family do love you, I'm sure of it, even if they don't show it. Remember that._

_Take care of my dog. I know you will._

_And take care of yourself. Know always that you're loved by many._

_All my love,_

_Derek_

Nellie reads and rereads the letter, alternating between crying and smiling. Derek was a good man. She misses him sorely, terribly, and she probably always will. But he's right. She made him happy- and he gave her paradise on earth. He gave her love, devotion and unwavering attention when she needed it the most, when she desperately needed someone to put her first, and it has significantly brightened her life. She'll never forget him, nor what he's done for her.

But, like he said, she's got a special capacity to love and care and cherish, and she won't waste it. Upstairs she's got two wonderful sons, a daughter-in-law she can put up with most of the time (she'll grow to like her eventually- she'll work on it) and an undoubtedly beautiful granddaughter almost ready to pop. Across the road she's got a son and grandson, she has Adrian and his three lovely boys, Aveline and Ursula and Nick, and even that Freddie, annoying as he can be at times, is still hers, still comes home to partake of her company and her cooking. She has a lovely family, and she loves them dearly. Always has, always will. That's who she is.

She returns the note to the locket and undoes her own necklace, slipping it onto the chain, thinking as she does so that this has certainly been a memorable Christmas. She'd started off with plans of running away, changed her plans in order to stay, and now she's running away again, this time with her children's knowledge and blessing, at Joey's expense. Instead of giving herself a much-needed break, she's being given one my her offspring.

And while at times they may seem to take her for granted, when it boils down to it, Nellie Boswell, nee Duvall, daughter of William, wife of Freddie and love/companion of Derek, mother of Joey, Jack, Adrian, Aveline and Billy, grandmother of Francesca, Ursula, Nick, Jimmy, Harris, Davey, Ryan and Annabelle, is loved. She is loved by her big, warm family, and each member of it is a blessing in her life.

And she'll go, because this time she's free to, knowing that her family want her to be happy, and that when she returns, they'll greet her with open arms. She'll go away for a while, missing her family but enjoying their thoughtfulness.

And she'll come back, because this is her home, her place, amongst her family.

This is where she is. This is where she'll stay.

This is where she belongs.

* * *

**Merry Christmas, everyone. XXX**


End file.
